XLI

The Spirit mourn'd 'Adieu!'—dissolved, and left

      The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;

As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,

      Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,

We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,

      And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil:

It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache,

And in the dawn she started up awake.