But one that she hath met within the gloom,
Some shadow wearied from the lake of doom,
Whom she remembers for her ancient self,
Hath led her from the low and crumbling shelf,
That hangs upon oblivion; bound her tresses,
About her brow with old times fond caresses.
And to the weeping shade of beauty's fall,
Presents a little curious lachrimal,
Which she hath wrought with many quaint enlaying
Of happy times and tears. Presents it, saying,
"This is thy beauty bear it to thy love
"And ask no more. Quick to the light above,
"Thy wings must bear this precious charm away,
"Nor pause till thou deliverest it. The day
"Must wane not on thy loveless spirit lorn,
"So long." Then swifter than the dainty morn
She flies unto her love, and all agleam
Her beating fancy lives her future dream.
How fair! How fair! But even as she flies,
The curious urn must tempt her famished eyes,
And she hath paused. Ah! woe betide the lover,
That halts to dream, and tempt the soul to steep
In th' unrevealed. What lethe fumes discover
In such unfathomed deeps, of death or sleep!