"Follow thy figure further, Accolon. Right fair it is. Too soon, alas! art done," Said she; and tossing back her heavy hair, Said smilingly, yet with a certain air Of hurt impatience, "Why dost not compare This dark expression of my eyes, ah me! To something darker? say, it is to thee As some bewildering mystery of a tarn, A mountain water, that the mornings scorn To anadem with fire and leave gray; To which a champion cometh when the day Hath tired of breding for the twilight's head Flame-petaled blooms, and, golden-chapleted, Sits waiting, rosy with deep love, for night, Who cometh sandaled with the moon; the light Of the auroras round her; her vast hair Tortuous with stars,--that burn, as in a lair The eyes of hunted wild things glare with rage,-- And on her bosom doth his love assuage." "Yea, even so," said Accolon, his eyes Searching her face: "the knight, as I surmise, Who cometh heated to that haunted place, Stoops down to lave his forehead, and his face Meets fairy faces; elfins in a ring That shadow upward, smiling, beckoning Down, down to wonders, magic built of old For some dim witch.--A city walled with gold, With beryl battlements and paved with pearls; Its lambent towers wrought of foamy swirls Of alabaster; and that witch to love More beautiful than any queen above.-- He pauses, troubled: but a wizard power, In all his bronzen harness, that mad hour Plunges him--whither? What if he should miss Those cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?-- Ah, Morgane, that same power Accolon Found potent in thine eyes, and it hath drawn And plunged him--whither? yea, to what far fate? To what dim end? what veiled and future state?"