Page:Shelley The Daemon of the World.djvu/22

 Where woods and streams with soft and pausing winds A lulling murmur weave?—

Ianthe doth not sleep The dreamless sleep of death: Nor in her moonlight chamber silently, Doth Henry hear her regular pulses throb, Or mark her delicate cheek With interchange of hues mock the broad moon Outwatching weary night. Without assured reward. Her dewy eyes are closed; On their translucent lids, whose testure [sic] fine Scarce hide the dark blue orbs that burn below With unapparent fire, The baby Sleep is pillowed: Her golden tresses shade The bosom's stainless pride, Twining like tendrils of the parasite Around a marble column.