They look upon the grate; she bending seems,
Towards the earth she seems her arms to stretch.
To whom? The region is all desert round;
Only from far strikes an uncertain gleam,
In likeness of a steely helmet’s flame,
A shadow on the earth, a knightly cloak;—
Already it has vanished. Certainly
’Twas an illusion of the eyes, most certain
It was the rosy glance of morn that gleamed.
For morning’s clouds now rolled away from earth.