  All her hair is softly set, Like a misty coronet, Massing darkly on her brow, Like the pines above the snow; And her eyebrows lightly drawn, Slender clouds above the dawn, Or like ferns above her eyes, Ferns and pools in Paradise. Her sweet mouth is like a flower, Like a poppy full of power, Shaken light and crimson stain, Pressed together by the rain, Glowing liquid in the sun, When the rain is done. When she moves, her motionings Seem to shadow hidden wings; So the cuckoo going to light Takes a little further flight, Fluttering onward, poised there, Half in grass and half in air. When she speaks, her girlish voice Makes a very pleasant noise, Like a brook that hums along Under leaves an undersong: When she sings, her voice is clear, Like the waters swerving sheer, In the sunlight magical, Down a ringing fall. Here her spirit came to dwell From the passionate Israfel; One of those great songs of his Rounded to a soul like this; And when she seems so strange at even, He must be singing in the heaven; Listening, listening all the while, She is stirred with kindred things, Starry fire and sweeping wings, And the seraph’s sobbing strings. |
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