As o’er a flower might pass the shade
By some dread angel’s pinion made!
The soul, the mother of deep fears,
Of high hopes infinite,
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight;
Lovely, but solemn, it arose,
Unfolding what no more might close.
The red-leaved tablets,[423] undefiled,
As yet, by evil thought—