Of summer eve in Paradise,
Those bright founts whence forever flow
Nepenthe-streams of ecstacies.
It cannot be that Death
Shall chill them with his winter breath,—
What hath Death to do with thee,
My seraph-winged Callirhöe?
Whence art thou? From some other sphere,
On which, throughout the moonless night,
Gazing, we dream of beings bright,