But oh! the touches of his pencil never
Could paint her perfect beauty. In her home
(Which once she did desert) I saw her last;
Propp'd up by pillows, swelling round her like
Soft heaps of snow, yielding, and fit to bear
Her faded figure. I observed her well:
Her brow was fair, but very pale, and look'd
Like stainless marble; a touch methought would soil
Its whiteness. O'er her temple one blue vein
Ran like a tendril; one through her shadowy hand