Playfully dallied with the morning breeze.
Doubt grew to strength within the mother’s soul,
Beneath the firmamental quietude;
And though the angel’s clasp was on her hand,
She backward looked, with longing, loving gaze,
Incredulous of evil, to the roofs
And lines of fair, white walls, that glittering lay
Serene in the pure dawn. The rigid hand
Dropped icy from the angel’s—the stark form
Stood fixed, and motionless, and marble pale—