dreaming in marble all the castle lay

like some gigantic ghost-flower born of night

blossoming in white towers to the moon,

soft sighed the passionate darkness to the tune

of tiny troubadours, and (phantom-white)

dumb-blooming boughs let fall their glorious snows,

and the unearthly sweetness of a rose

swam upward from the troubled heart of May;

a Winged Passion woke and one by one

there fell upon the night, like angel's tears,

the syllables of that mysterious prayer,

and as an opening lily drowsy-fair

(when from her couch of poppy petals peers

the sleepy morning) gently draws apart

her curtains, and lays bare her trembling heart,

with beads of dew made jewels by the sun,

so one high shining tower (which as a glass

turned light to flame and blazed with snowy fire)

unfolding, gave the moon a nymphlike face,

a form whose snowy symmetry of grace

haunted the limbs as music haunts the lire,

a creature of white hands, who letting fall

a thread of lustre from the castle wall

glided, a drop of radiance, to the grass—

shunning the sudden moonbeam's treacherous snare

she sought the harbouring dark, and (catching up

her delicate silk) all white, with shining feet,

went forth into the dew: right wildly beat

her heart at every kiss of daisy-cup,

and from her cheek the beauteous colour went

with every bough that reverently bent

to touch the yellow wonder of her hair.