Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray
Of victory from thy mien; and round thy head,
The halo, melting spirit-like away,
Seem’d of the very soul’s bright rising born,
To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn.
And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming,
Gazed in mute reverence woman’s earnest eye,
Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming,
With quenchless faith, and deep love’s fervency,
Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil’d shrine,