At length, as ever in such vision-hours, Came the bright maiden, riding the great horse. And then at once the will sprang up awake, And, like a necromantic sage, forbade What came unbidden to depart at will. So on that form he rested his sad thoughts, Till he began to wonder what her lot; How she had fared in spinning history Into a psyche-cradle, where to die; And then emerge--what butterfly? pure white, With silver dust of feathers on its wings? Or that dull red, seared with its ebon spots? And then he thought: "I know some women fail, And cease to be so very beautiful. And I have heard men rave of certain eyes, In which I could not rest a moment's space." Straightway the fount of possibilities Began to gurgle, under, in his soul. Anon the lava-stream burst forth amain, And glowed, and scorched, and blasted as it flowed. For purest souls sometimes have direst fears, In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth Is cast on half her children, from the sun Who is afar and busy with the rest. "If my high lady be but only such As some men say of women--very pure When dressed in white, and shining in men's eyes, And with the wavings of great unborn wings Around them in the aether of the souls, Felt at the root where senses meet in one Like dim-remembered airs and rhymes and hues; But when alone, at best a common thing, With earthward thoughts, and feet that are of earth! Ah no--it cannot be! She is of God. But then, fair things may perish; higher life Gives deeper death; fair gifts make fouler faults: Women themselves--I dare not think the rest. And then they say that in her London world, They have other laws and judgments than in ours." And so the thoughts walked up and down his soul, And found at last a spot wherein to rest, Building a resolution for the day.