When in the twilight, round my lonely room,
Leaving the pictured features that I love,
My sad eyes, aching in the childless gloom,
From one mute image to the other rove,
They dwell with most repose, most solacement
On the fair stripling, strong, erect and calm,
Of Andrea’s dream, from whose sweet lips “Repent!”
Fell soft, I think, like odoriferous balm.
Deep, gentle eyes; pure, finely-moulded mouth,
Like his but now I looked my last upon;
He seems my angel grown to god-like youth,
And my belovèd seems the young St. John.
With even such loveliness of soul and limb
Time and God’s grace would have anointed him.