And tresses white as winter’s snow.
Pale Hecatè, peering from a cloud—
A maiden, lying in her shroud—
Less pale were than the Fairy Queen,
Less cold, less motionless of mien.
Heart-broken Titania, wan with age,
Leant feebly on her Indian page,
Looking as if all hope was gone;—
Than even Death himself more wan.
“Subjects,” said Oberon, “gentle friends,