The long curves of your saffron dress-- The outline of your delicate mould-- Your strange unearthly slenderness Seem like a wraith's that strayed of old Out of some region where abide Fortunate spirits without stain, Where nothing lovely is denied, And pain is only beauty's pain. . . . . . . Strange! that in life you were a thing Common to many for delight, Thrall to the revelries that fling Their gleam across the fevered night-- A holy image in the grasp Of pagans careless to adore; A pearl secreted in the clasp Of oozy weeds on some lost shore. My thought shrinks back from what I see, And wanders dumb in poisoned air-- Then leaps, inexplicably free, Remembering that you were fair! . . . . . . Belovèd were you in your prime By one, of all, who came as guest,-- A wastrel strange, whose gaze could climb To where your beauty lit the west. One,--in whose secret heart there moved Some far and unforgotten stir Of ancient, holy beauties loved,-- Here paused, a sudden worshipper. Methinks he moved in dusks apart Through that profound and trembling hour When you within his doubting heart Touched all the desert into flower. And where you rose a world's delight, For him the dark veils from you fell,-- As earthly clouds from star-strewn night Withdraw, and leave a miracle. Not Oiran then, but maid; remote From tyrant powers of waste desire. Who drew these hands, this slender throat, Saw you 'mid skaken winds of fire. You were a shape of wonder, set To crown the seeking of his days. For you his lonely eyes were wet; With you his soul walked shrouded ways. And though the burning night might keep You servient to some lord's carouse, For him you rose from such a deep With maiden dawn-light on your brows. . . . . . . Pale Autumn with ethereal glow Hovered your delicate figure near; And ever round you whispered low Her voices, and the dying year. A year--a day--and then the leaves Purpureal, ashen, umber, red, Wove for you both through waning eves A gorgeous carpet gloomward spread. And with that waning, you had gone, Through changes that love fears to trace-- No later lover could have known Your wistful and alluring face-- Your music, quivering in thin air, Had fled with life that filled your veins-- But he for whom you were so fair Dreamed; and the troubled dream remains. . . . . . . Time, that is swift to smite and rend The common things that spring from earth, Dares not so surely set an end To shapes of visionary birth.