How woolly gold they were, how woven through
With fluffy flame, and webby with spun dew:
And 'Asphodels' I murmured: then, 'These sure
Are Eden amaranths, so angel pure
That love alone may touch them.'—Thou didst lay
The flowers in my hands; alas! then gray
The world grew; and, meseemed, I passed away.
In some strange manner on a misty brook,
Between us flowing, striving still to look
Beyond it, while, around, the wild air shook