“Her head is of brighter gold than the broom-flower,

Her breast like foam under her green tunic;

Like a summer sky at night are her glances;

Her fingers are as wood anemones in a daze of dew;

Of her lips,—who shall tell!

The gates of a sunset

Where love dies.

Her limbs are like May-blossoms

Bedded on a green couch:

The night sighs for her,