Of a half-blown pomegranate; and her neck,
Just where the cheek was melting to its curve,
With the unearthly beauty sometimes there,
Was shaded as if light had fallen off,
Its surface was so polished. She was quelling
Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose
Scarce moved upon her bosom as it swelled,
Like nothing but a wave of light in dreams,
To meet the arching of her queenly neck.
Her countenance was radiant with love.