Just touched with sleepy scorn perchance,
And straight, low brows, close bound for beauty,
With beaten gold and burning gem,
And the small asp, upreared for striking,
Afront the quaint old diadem.
So richly worn, so darkly splendid,
Looks out her face from shadowland,
Some night methinks I scarce should wonder
To see a living presence stand
Just in the shaft of light thrown dimly