ACCOLON OF GAUL.
With triumphs gay of old romance.—Keats.
PRELUDE.
WHY, dreams from dreams in dreams remembered! naught
Save this, alas! that once it seemed I thought
I wandered dim with someone, but I knew
Not who; most beautiful and good and true,
Yet sad through suffering; with curl-crowned brow,
Soft eyes and voice; so white she haunts me now:—