ANNE
Belovèd—O adorable and false—
Whom have you taken now in the dear toils?
By what pale margins do your footsteps stray,
Or what enchanted wood? What valleys hold
The lily of your loveliness? What hills
Have known your weight upon them, what far shores?
Twilight comes tenderly, while evening lifts
Along the pallid rim her lonely star—
O happy heart on which your heart is laid!