She Hurried At His Words, Beset With

When I Behold, Upon The Night's Starr'd Face, Huge Cloudy Symbols Of A High Romance, And Think That I May Never Live To Trace Their Shadows, With The Magic Hand Of Chance.

Some Say The World Is A Vale Of Tears, I Say It Is A Place Of Soul-making.

Fade Far Away, Dissolve, And Quite Forget.

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

I Cannot See What Flowers Are At My Feet, Nor What Soft Incense Hangs Upon The Boughs, But, In Embalmed Darkness, Guess Each Sweet.