More awful than the chambers of dark earth
Have virtue to send forth. Upon the marge
Of the benignant fountain, while she stood 180
Gazing intensely, the translucent lymph
Darkened beneath the shadow of her thoughts
As if swift clouds swept o’er it, or caught
War’s tincture, ’mid the forest green and still,
Turned into blood before her heart-sick eye. 185
Erelong, forsaking all her natural haunts,
All her accustomed offices and cares