And losing her, lo, one thin drifting cloud
Curls idly from the altar in that grove
Where burn the fires that know not change or death!
Yet she shall move the strange desires of men;
For in her lie dim glories that she dreams
Not of, and on her ever broods a light
Her Cyprian eyes ne’er saw; and evermore
Round her pale face shall pleading faces press;
Round her shall mortal passion beat and ebb.
Years hence, as waves on islands burst in foam,