Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/47

 —Yea, cloistered round with old red crumbling wall, On marble steps methinks I see thee stand, Erect and gracious, young and fair and tall, Holding sweet purple violets in thy hand!

Yet as I gaze, rejoicing,—ah, behold! Is there not spread a warm blue sky afloat Above thee, and beneath thee? From the gold Of those rough-rippling locks, thy dulcet throat, All lilywhite and clear, leans yearningly Along the blue; thy face is full of dreams, Pensive, mysterious, very sweet to see! And, thro’ the bright air flashing brighter beams, Lo! from each pure-curv’d shoulder a white wing Upleaping, for a veil that thou mayst spread Before thy face, in that high communing When God’s own voice rings round thine awe-struck head.