Like ivy growing in the lap of Spring:
A moment, and she was a deathless thing—
A woman? Nay, the spirit of the vine!”
“Ah, but I did not love to make him glad;
But, if I could, to make him more than wise.
I found, in the strange silence of his eyes,
The same unuttered fear that Dante had,
Lest Beatrice should die and he go mad!
And so I let him dream a paradise
Upon my lips; and with love’s quick disguise