Of those who slept below, or of the tale
Of that brain-stricken man, that felt the pale
And wandering moonlight steal his soul away,—
Poor Julio, and the Ladye Agathè!
We found them,—children of toil and tears,
Their birth of beauty shaded;
We left them in their early years
Fallen and faded.
We found them, flowers of summer hue,