Fair Lunacy! I see thee, with a crown Of hawthorn and sweet daisies, bending down To mirror thy young image in a spring: And thou wilt kiss that shadow of a thing As soulless as thyself. ’Tis tender, too, The smile that meeteth thine! the holy hue Of health! the pearly radiance of the brow! All, all as tender,—beautiful as thou! And wilt thou say, my sister, there is none Will answer thee? Thou art—thou art alone, A pure, pure being! but the God on high Is with thee ever, as thou goest by. Thou Poetess! that harpest to the moon, And, in soft concert to the silver tune, Of waters play’d on by the magic wind, As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined, Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,— I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth, How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love, That came, like seraph, from the stars above. And was so sadly wedded unto Sin, That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin. Sorrow with mirthful Lunacy! that be Together link’d for time, I deem of ye That ye are worshipped as none others are,— One as a lonely shadow,—one a star! Is Julio glad, that bendeth, even now, To his wild purpose, to his holy vow? He seeth only in his ladye-bride The image of the laughing girl, that died A moon before—the same, the very same— The Agathè that lisp’d her lover’s name, To him and to her heart: that azure eye, That shone through sunny tresses, waving by: The brow, the cheek, that blush’d of fire and snow, Both blending into one ethereal glow: And the same breathing radiancy, that swam Around her, like a pure and blessed calm Around some halcyon bird. And, as he kiss’d Her wormy lips, he felt that he was blest! He felt her holy being stealing through His own, like fountains of the azure dew, That summer mingles with his golden light; And he would clasp her, till the weary night, Was worn away. * * * * * * * * * * * * And morning rose in form Of heavy clouds, that knitted into storm The brow of Heaven, and through her lips the wind Came rolling westward, with a tract behind Of gloomy billows, bursting on the sea, All rampant, like great lions terribly, And gnashing on each other: and anon, Julio heard them, rushing one by one, And laugh’d and turn’d. The hermit was away For he was old and weary, and he lay Within his cave, and thought it was a dream, A summer’s dream! and so the quiet stream Of sleep came o’er his eyelids, and in truth He dreamt of that strange ladye and the youth That held a death-wake on her wasting form; And so he slept and woke not till the storm Was over.