XII.
Wood as thou art, my treasure, with the strings
Fair on thy form, as fits thy parentage,
I cannot deem that in a gilded cage
Thy spirit lives. The bird that in thee sings
Is not a mortal. No! Enthralment flings
Its charms about thee like a poet's rage.
XIII.
Thou hast no sex; but, in an elfish way,
Thou dost entwine in one, as in a troth,