Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/351

 That face was all a deadly white, Yet beautiful to see; And indistinctly floated down Its body's symmetry, In ample folds and wimples quaint Of gorgeous drapery. And gleaming forth, like spots of snow On a sad coloured field, A small white hand on either side Was partially revealed. O'er me a deeper horror, A marvellous rush of light— Long-perished memories returned Upon that dreadful night. I heard the voice of other times, The tale of other years, Re-acted were their direst crimes, Re-shed their bitterest tears!