Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed,
The lemon-tinted morn
Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine:
Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.
GWENDOLINE.
(E. B. BROWNING)
'Twas not the brown of chestnut boughs
That shadowed her so finely;
It was the hair that swept her brows
And framed her face divinely;