Looks innocent as yonder sky,
And all as fair—when rainbows rest
Like angel-plumes upon its breast;
And still thy soul seems richly set
Within its form, like some bright gem
Which might by worshippers be met
In Purity’s own diadem.
In Lorro’s hall the tone of lutes
And harp is wafted through the air,
Such as the glad most fitly suits