XXVII

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,

      In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,

      Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd

      Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;

      Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

      Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;

      Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;

      Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.