THE PYTHONESS.
Back she flung
The gather'd darkness of her raven hair,
And bared her marble brow, as she would turn
An uncheck'd gaze on heaven:—back they flow'd,
And, as beneath a mantle did she move
Within their shadow, while the murmuring wind,
Bearing them like a banner, with low wail,
Pass'd through those long black locks: her cheek was pale,
And, as the daybreak fell upon her face,
It grew still paler. One whom godless spells
Had summon'd from the silence of the grave,
Would wear such fixed ghostliness of look—
And, in her eyes, unearthly light'ning dwelt,
As they caught from the stars, with which she held
Communion strange, a portion of their fire.—
Her form was wan and wasted, as the soul
Had worn its fragile dwelling; when she rais'd
Her white arms, they were like the snowy cloud,
That, half dissolv'd, hangs on a moonlight sky.
She stood and watch'd the morning; the first blush
Of young Aurora was upon the east;
But, when the chariot of the sun-god caught,
Invisible glory, from its cloudy hall,
A breath of fragrance floated on the air;
