Iii

Or there above the beeches, On terraced reaches Of rolling roses, towered And moonbeam-bowered, Is it her palace airy?-- Or dream of Fairy?-- Piled, full of melody and marble-white, Its pointed casements lit with piercing light: Wherein, all veiled and hidden, She waits,--who long hath bidden Me come to her,--her accoladed knight?