Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 235
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; 240
Clasp'd like a missal[167] where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.