| But yet I had a terror of her robes, | To no death was that visage; it had pass'd |
| And chiefly of the veils, that from her brow | The lily and the snow; and beyond these |
| Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries | I must not think now, though I saw that face - |
| That made my heart too small to hold its blood. | But for her eyes I should have fled away. |
| This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand | They held me back, with a benignant light |
| parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face, | Soft-mitigated by divinest lids |
| Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright blanch'd | Half closed, and visionless entire they seem'd |
| By an immortal sickness which kills not; | Of all external things - they saw me not, |
| It works a constant change, which happy death | but in blank splendor beam'd like the mild moon, |
| Can put no end to; deathwards progressing | Who comforts those she sees not, who knows not |
| What eyes are upward cast. |
