And, as she moves, her equal tread’s fine impulse
Falls on the ear like harmony;—the light
That gleams on her fair locks and slender form
Crowns them with hallowed glory, like some vision
To saintly eyes reveal’d!—She is a thing
To knee and worship. Beauty hath no lustre,
Save when it gleameth through the crystal web
That Purity’s fine fingers weave for it;
And then it shows like Venus from the wave,
The fresh drops clinging to her beauty still!—