Slim, lambent towers wrought of foamy swirls
Of alabaster, and that witch to love,
More beautiful to love than queens above.'—
He pauses troubled, but a wizard power,
In all his bronzen harness that mad hour
Plunges him—whither? what if he should miss
Those cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?
Ah, Morgane, that same power Accolon
Saw potent in thine eyes and it hath drawn
Him deep to plunge—and to what breathless fate?—