XLVII.
Sigismund makes answer 'NAY.
Though the Highest heaped on me
Trouble, yet the same should be
Welcomer than weal from thee.
Nay;—for ever and ever Nay.'
O, the white-witch floats away.
Look you, look! A still pure smile
Blossoms on her mouth the while,
White wings peakèd high behind,
Bear her;—no, the wafting wind,
For they move not,—floats her back,
Floats her up. They scarce may track
Her swift rising, shot on high
Like a ray from the western sky,
Or a lark from some grey wold
Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold.