With parted lips and breathing soft and calm;
About her head unloosed, her hair outshone,
Among the grey-green bents, like fine, red gold.
So beautiful she was that Oswald, pierced
With quivering rapture, dared no longer bide,
But, with quick fingers, softly raised the latch,
And stumbled o'er the threshold. As he went,
A flock of sea-gulls from the bent-thatched roof
Rose, querulous, and round him, wheeling, swept,
With creaking wings and cold, black eyes agleam;