The tremor of white hands, the ashy gleam
Of noble brows, and thou dost startle Love's
Young dream into a dying swoon, and strew
A flowery sadness on some new-made grave.
From "DE PROFUNDIS"
I HEAR the wondrous lyre
Of the blind bard, and see the Grecian throng
About Troy's lofty walls, and Hector slain,
The white-stained face and blackened crest,