The young maids ask me. Answer find I none:
I know but this;—she shines on hearts grief-laden
Like visitant from star more near the sun.
Above her vesture's hem a lustre hovers:
Whiter her veil than earliest white of dawn,
Now lifted as on sighs of happy lovers,
Around her now, like mist o'er Hesper, drawn.
Sweet is her voice, as though with saint and angel
Her converse had been ever, and were still:
With her she seems to waft some high evangel,