Where are the ringlets wreathing there?
Why does the hand that shades it tremble?
Why do these limbs, so languid, shun
Their walk beneath the morning sun?
Ah, mortal Self! couldst thou dissemble
Like Sister-Soul! But forms refuse
The real and unreal to confuse.
But, with caprice of fancy, She
Joins things long past with things to be,
Till even I doubt if I have told