Sprang onward like a bounding antelope.
She turned a moment—might she not, for him?
Him, whom she cradled in the whispering tree,
And gathered to her bosom in the hush
Of the still night?—to know if he was there.
Twas but a moment, and she bowed again;
And, as the murmur of her silver tone
Stole out upon the wind, her images
Of majesty came back, and she was filled,
Like a deep channel by the whirlwind swept,