But these are foolish things to all the wise, And I love Wisdom more than she loves me; My tendency is to philosophise On most things, from a tyrant to a tree; But still the spouseless virgin _Knowledge_ flies. What are we? and whence came we? what shall be Our _ultimate_ existence? what's our present? Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. LXIV. There was deep silence in the chamber: dim And distant from each other burned the lights, And slumber hovered o'er each lovely limb Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites, They should have walked there in their sprightliest trim, By way of change from their sepulchral sites, And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. LXV. Many and beautiful lay those around, Like flowers of different hue, and clime, and root, In some exotic garden sometimes found, With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot. One with her auburn tresses lightly bound, And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath, And lips apart, which showed the pearls beneath. LXVI. One with her flushed cheek laid on her white arm, And raven ringlets gathered in dark crowd Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm; And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud The moon breaks, half unveiled each further charm, As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night All bashfully to struggle into light. LXVII. This is no bull, although it sounds so; for 'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. A third's all pallid aspect offered more The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betrayed Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore Belovéd and deplored; while slowly strayed (As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark fringes. LXVIII. A fourth as marble, statue-like and still, Lay in a breathless, hushed, and stony sleep; White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, Or Lot's wife done in salt,--or what you will;-- My similes are gathered in a heap, So pick and choose--perhaps you'll be content With a carved lady on a monument. LXIX. And lo! a fifth appears;--and what is she? A lady of a "certain age,"[352] which means Certainly agéd--what her years might be I know not, never counting past their teens; But there she slept, not quite so fair to see, As ere that awful period intervenes Which lays both men and women on the shelf, To meditate upon their sins and self. LXX.