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172 HE has set a spell on me, I may nevermore be free : What but seems to be, I see, And I see not what I seem — So she weaves a spell for me, My Lady of Dream.

I called her not, she came by stealth, I knew not why, I cared not how, Ensnared with all the wondrous wealth Of her wild beauty — moonlit brow. Miraculous drifts of stormy hair, And maddening eyes that looked me through. Brimming with light so strange and fair That a swift passion stirred and flew Towards her with pain'd cries, then drew Affrighted back, and did not dare Approach her standing silent there. She has touched me with her gentle hand. More white than whitest lily-bud. Or foam new fallen on the sand ; I felt it flame through all my blood. And blind me so I could but see The visions that she wove for me. She has kissed me with her perfect lips: And nevermore can maiden''s breath Fan spark to glow and glow to flame; With a shuddering sense of shame. Cold and grey it scattereth Ashes of death. So I wander through the earth — Oh, but it is drear and cold ! Like to me are moan and mirth. All is long outworn and old. Still she comes, a glorious gleam, Still her beauty fills the gloom — But she passes from her place, Vanishing from my embrace. My Lady of Dream, My Lady of Doom. Thus is this the pain to me — I may nevermore be free, Yet may never call her mine. So unkind and cold is she. Ah, so cold ! and yet I deem She is perfect and divine ; Thus she sets her spell on me, My Lady of Dream. Mortimer Wheeler,