Fair on her brow is her tire,
Gemmed with the morning-star's fire.
II
And still as the incense of altars,
And dim as the deeps of a cloud,
Mystic as winds of the woodlands,
In that vale, is the night when she falters
In the sorrowful folds of her shroud,
The far-blowing dusk of her shroud,
By the scarlet-strewn bier of her lover,