Iv

The vision of her beauty fell, Like music on a moonlit place, Or trembles of a silver bell, Or memories of a sacred face, Too dear to tell:

The grace that wandered free of laws, The look that lit the heart's confession, Had never dreamed how fair it was; Nor guessed that purity's expression Is beauty's cause:

No more that unenquiring heart Perused the sweet home of her breast, Than turtle-doves unline their nest To scan the outer part