Ii

And still as the incense of altars, And dim as the deeps of a cloud, Mystic as winds of the woodlands, In that vale, is the night when she falters In the sorrowful folds of her shroud, The far-blowing dusk of her shroud, By the scarlet-strewn bier of her lover, The day, lying faded and fair In his chamber of purple and vair.-- When, above it, you see her uncover Her star-girdled darkness of hair-- Gold-hooped with the gold of the even-- And for the day's burial prepare, The spirit of night in the heaven, O'er that vale, is most hauntingly fair; So fair that you wish it were given That you in the rays of her hair, Might die! in her gold-girdled hair.