Framed by an inner beam of golden light,
Beheld a maiden of madonna face,
Pensive and sad, yet with a nameless grace,
Presage, I thought, of the unfolding years,
That hide some things that are too deep for tears!
[p 17]
]THE SPECTRAL ROWERS
What is that shimmering line of white
Gliding under the stark midnight—
Gliding—gliding—gliding—gliding—
Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?