Him crashing down, while she, tall on the crag,
Triumphant, mocks him with glad sorcery
Till all the wildwood echoes shout with glee."
"Follow thy figure further, Accolon.
Right fair it is. Too soon, alas! art done,"
Said she; and tossing back her heavy hair,
Said smilingly, yet with a certain air
Of hurt impatience, "Why dost not compare
This dark expression of my eyes, ah me!
To something darker? say, it is to thee