XLVII.

Sigismund makes answer 'NAY. Though the Highest heaped on me Trouble, yet the same should be Welcomer than weal from thee. Nay;—for ever and ever Nay.' O, the white-witch floats away. Look you, look! A still pure smile Blossoms on her mouth the while, White wings peakèd high behind, Bear her;—no, the wafting wind, For they move not,—floats her back, Floats her up. They scarce may track Her swift rising, shot on high Like a ray from the western sky, Or a lark from some grey wold Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold.