LXIV.
Amieri wander'd through his gloomy halls
With restless steps and vacant rolling eyne,
Whilst from each wide spread casement down there falls
Upon his blanchëd locks the moon's pale sheen,
As though a voice within him ever calls,
And bids him follow some old form unseen;
She lies upon your threshold, weak old man—
Up! take her to your arms while yet you can!