Like some new-gathered snowy hyacinth, so white and cold and delicate it was
Like some poor nigh-related guest, that may not rudely be dismist
Like some suppressed and hideous thought which flits athwart our musings, but can find no rest within a pure and gentle mind
Like some unshriven churchyard thing, the friar crawled
Like something fashioned in a dream
Like sounds of wind and flood
Like splendor-winged moths about a taper
Like stepping out on summer evenings from the glaring ball-room
upon the cool and still piazza
Like straws in a gust of wind