IV.

Her thoughts are never memories, But ever changeful, ever new, Fresh and beautiful as dew That in a dell at noontide lies, Or, at the close of summer day, The pleasant breath of new-mown hay: Swiftly they come and pass As golden birds across the sun, As light-gleams on tall meadow-grass Which the wind just breathes upon. And when she speaks, her eyes I see Down-gushing through their silken lattices, Like stars that quiver tremblingly Through leafy branches of the trees, And her pale cheeks do flush and glow With speaking flashes bright and rare As crimson North-lights on new-fallen snow, From out the veiling of her hair-- Her careless hair that scatters down On either side her eyes, A waterfall leaf-tinged with brown And lit with the sunrise.