Of moss and thick ferns; where Hortense of Clare,
How often I wis not, met him by chance—
Perhaps!—Sweet sorceress out of romance,
Those tomes of Geoffrey—for she was fair!
Her large, warm eyes and hair,... ah, hair,
How may one picture or liken it!
With the golden gloss of its full brown, fit
For the Viviane face of lovable white
Beneath;—like a star that a cloud of night
Stops over to threaten but never will drench