Might it grave the word it would.

A gem of beauty and of bale,

A prisoned force in narrow pale,

Evil-perfect, pure of good!

—So will she sit, till naked Morn

Peers at the world with visage white

Like a sleeper roused in fright,

Aghast and most forlorn.

What of the end? since end must be.

She knows a skilled artificer,