She floated towards us from the wreathing crowd
Of peachey nymphs, and swam a breathing cloud,
Less with a regulated kind of motion,
Than like a bird scarring the breast of ocean.
I thought and said—“In roseate light she swims,
Guided, not lifted, by those slopy limbs,
And wants in air a sister sylph to meet,
While Earth heaves upward, sick to kiss her feet.”
But when she ceased that sort of moveless gliding,