Who moves—a grace—and looks a queen,
All passionless and pure.”
A creature of faultless harmony and grace; but whose perfect repose of manner, attitude, look and language, exquisite as it is, almost frightens you away from her at first. So still, so fair, so pure—like a snow-cloud moving serenely through the silent air. There she sits; with her graceful Greek head bent slightly forward, its luxuriant, light brown hair wound carelessly and wavily around it; her chiseled features serenely beautiful, and her hands, white as Pentelican marble, resting half-clasped upon her knee.
If I mistake not, beneath that snowy crest, there are flowers of fancy and fountains of feeling—all the lovelier and purer for being so guarded, by the vestal, from the world.
Her cheek is almost always pale
And marble cold it seems;
But a soft color trembles there,
At times, in rosy gleams!
Some sudden throb of love, or grief,
Or pity, or delight,