With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,
She drench'd away: and still she comb'd'and kept
Sighing all day—and still she kiss'd and wept.
LII.
Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby,
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze
Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully,—
She wrapp'd it up; and for its tomb did choose
A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by,
And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.
LIII.
And she forgot the blue above the trees,
And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;
She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new morn she saw not: but in peace
Hung over her sweet Basil ever more.
And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.
LIV.
Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew,
So that it smelt more balmy than its peers
Of Basil tufts in Florence; for it drew
Nurture besides, and life, from human fears,
From the fast mouldering bead there shut from view;
So that the jewel, safely casketed,
Came forth, and in perfumed leaflets spread
