Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow,
A low, soft ottoman), and black Despair
Stirred up and down her bosom like a billow,
Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check
Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.
CIX.
Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping
Concealed her features better than a veil;
And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping,
White, waxen, and as alabaster pale: