Around her, like the dewy mists of morn,
A pensive tenderness through happiest days;
And a soft world of dreams had seem’d to lie
Still in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye.
LIII.
And I could hope in that strange fire!—she died,
She died, with all its lustre on her mien!
The day was melting from the waters wide,
And through its long bright hours her thoughts had been,
It seem’d, with restless and unwonted yearning,