That left no trace—no flush—no crimson streak
But was as bloodless as a marble stone,
Susceptible of silent waste alone.
And on her brow a crucifix he laid,—
A jewel’d crucifix, the virgin maid
Had given him before she died,—the moon
Shed light upon her visage—clouded soon,
Then briefly breaking from its airy veil,
Like warrior lifting up his aventayle.
But Julio gazed on, and never lifted