Page:Rosalind and Helen (Shelley).djvu/57

Rh His words grew subtile fire, which made The air his hearers breathed delight: His motions, like the winds, were free, Which bend the bright grass gracefully, Then fade away in circlets faint: And winged hope, on which upborne His soul seemed hovering in his eyes, Like some bright spirit newly born Floating amid the sunny skies, Sprang forth from his rent heart anew. Yet o'er his talk, and looks, and mien, Tempering their loveliness too keen, Past woe its shadow backward threw, Till like an exhalation, spread From flowers half drunk with evening dew, They did become infectious: sweet And subtile mists of sense and thought: Which wrapt us soon, when we might meet, Almost from our own looks and aught The wide world holds. And so, his mind Was healed, while mine grew sick with fear: For ever now his health declined,