Whose glances sometimes sought for his, and threw
Their light far through his spirit, till it thrilled
To music every tightened nerve that strung
The living lyre of being.
At such an hour his burning passion slept
Before the portals of their azure heaven,
Like to some wandering angel who has sunk
To rest beside the glory-shadowed gate
Of a lost Paradise; and when he bowed
To press his lip upon the brow that lay