That one so gentle sought their perfumed home.
A veil of silver-tissue, mottled o’er
With sparkling stars, hung round her sylphid form,
And tresses, rich like Autumn’s golden grain,
Fell down, and nestled on her snowy breast.
Too exquisite for earth—of mould too fine—
She seemed a herald from the beaming sky,
Sent down to whisper of the spirit-land.
Such sight, I ween, had painter never seen;
And e’en the charméd breath of poesy,