And drew her to the chamber, weak and faint,
Through her gold hair so rare a lustre burned,
It seemed to Christine that an aureoled saint
Leaned out from heaven to snatch her from the deep.
Then, dizzily, she sank upon the floor,
Dreaming that toil was over evermore,
And she secure in Love's celestial fold;
Till, waking gradually as from a sleep,
Her dark eyes opened on a blaze of gold.
She sat within a chamber hung around