Oh she was beautiful, that lady fair,
Though pale her seeming in the midnight air;
The slenderest tendrils of the clasping vine
Less rarely than her raven ringlets twine;
The snowiest that e’er the moon looked on
Than her white forehead less serenely shone;
The wavy billows in the morning light,
Now tinged with red, now melting back to white,
Have less of heaven’s serenest dyes than wore
That cheek, the tresses dankly clustered o’er.