LIII.
And I could hope in that strange fire!—she died,
She died, with all its lustre on her mien!
The day was melting from the waters wide,
And through its long bright hours her thoughts had been,
It seem’d, with restless and unwonted yearning,
To Spain’s blue skies and dark sierras turning;
For her fond words were all of vintage-scene,
And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron’s breath:
Oh! with what vivid hues life comes back oft on death!