  Meseemed that while she played, while lightly yet Her fingers fell, as roses bloom by bloom, I listened—dead within a mighty room Of some old palace where great casements let Gaunt moonlight in, that glimpsed a parapet Of statued marble: in the arrased gloom Majestic pictures towered, dim as doom, The dreams of Titian and of Tintoret. And then, it seemed, along a corridor, A mile of oak, a stricken footstep came. Hurrying, yet slow ... I thought long centuries Passed ere she entered—she, I loved of yore, For whom I died, who wildly wailed my name And bent and kissed me on the mouth and eyes. |
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