Might softly hover by a rose full-blown.
Heraldic, rich, the costly coverings
Sweep, fall'n in folds, pushed partly from her breast;
As through storm-broken clouds the full moon springs,
From these one orb of her pure bosom pressed.
She sleeps: and where the moteless moonbeams sink
Through blazoned panes—an immaterial snow—
In wide, white jets, the lion-fur seems to drink
With tawny jaws their wasted, winey glow.
Light-lidded sleep and holy dreams are hers,