Fleet as the wind, her daïsed throne beside,
Twin greyhounds couch majestical, and seem
To course, through Forests of Enchanted Dream,
At will, a phantom fancied quarry, melancholy-eyed.
Stirless, she holds a tulip flower, attent
The while her page, whose name is Yesterday,
Reads with hushed breath an old bewitching lay,
And hears its magic in her heart die impotent.
Before her—marbled fountains, terraced slopes,
And all the green of Spring. Sombre, her mind