A silver line, that runs from brow to crown
And in the middle parts the braided hair,
Just serves to show how delicate a soil 30
The golden harvest grows in; and those eyes,
Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky
Whose azure depth their colour emulates,
Must needs be conversant with upward looks,
Prayer’s voiceless service; but now, seeking nought 35
And shunning nought, their own peculiar life
Of motion they renounce, and with the head