II.

Had she sharp, slant-wise wings outspread, She were an angel; but she stands With flat dead gold behind her head, And lilies in her long thin hands: Her folded mantle, gathered in, Falls to her feet as it were tin.

Her nose is keen as pointed flame; Her crimson lips no thing express; And never dread of saintly blame Held down her heavy eyelashes: To guess what she were thinking of, Precludeth any meaner love.