What does she dream, lost in her hair's cascade,
The lonely child with flowering hands as wan
As garlands pale?--Of the plains of days agone
With pools of water lilies, where she strayed
On paths of chance her hands with flowers arrayed,
And where alms welcomed her?--And never shone
As now her eyes her jewels braided on
Her gowns of gold and purple and brocade.
But she sees nothing round her. In the room
Amber and aromatics melt the gloom,
The dusk's hot odour through the window streams;
As heavy as an opal's changing fires,
Sigh in the evening mist and die desires,
While naked at her glass the maiden dreams.