A great moon like a red lamp in the sycamore
A grim face like a carved mask
A hand icily cold and clammy as death
A heart from which noble sentiments sprang like sparks from an anvil
A jeweler that glittered like his shop
A lady that lean'd on his arm like a queen in a fable of old fairy days
A life, a Presence, like the air
A life as common and brown and bare as the box of earth in the window there
A light wind outside the lattice swayed a branch of roses to and fro,
shaking out their perfume as from a swung censer