And you would call her beauty of the rose—
She, too, is folded in a fleece of snows;
And you might call her pale—she doth display
The blush of dawn beneath the eye of day,
The lips of her the wine cup hath caressed,
The form of her that from some vision blest
Starts with the rose of sleep still glowing bright
Through limbs that ranged the dreamlands of the night;
The pencil falters and the song is naught,
Her beauty, like the sun, dispels my thought.'