“My champion!” Edith cried; and waved her thanks,
With white sleeves fluttering from her shapely sides—
Ah me, a wing’d one sent to save my soul
Had scarcely stirr’d in me a greater joy.
XIX.
My mien must have reveal’d it. Like a lake,
Whose fogs unfold, when comes a genial sun,
Her moods unfolded to my sympathy;
And, brightly imaged in her nature’s depths,
I seem’d, at every turn, to face my own.