He moved away; he had been standing where
His eye upon a pictured shape could dwell;
A brow proud, beautiful, as temples are;
A neck curved with the white swan's haughtiest swell
Above the waters; the soft cheek was fair,
But colourless,—as the heart had nought to tell
That might disturb so pure a sanctuary
With lights and blushes of a troubled sky.
With one long look he turn'd away his gaze
From thy high beauty, peerless Leonore!
Too much the breast its secret thought betrays
When it hath seemed glossed most securely o'er;
Suspicion more that hurried start would raise
Than all his ardent look had done before:
'Twas poet gazing with a painter's eye—
But love was in that start and in that sigh.
He entered in a small alcove, where hung
A wreathed rose-tree, a snow-starr'd jasmine:
The life-blood to the Poet's forehead sprung;
For bending there, like Spirit at her shrine,
The Princess Leonore had backwards flung
Her silver veil and tresses' grape-like twine,
As if she had listen'd in so wrapt a mood
That still she kept her listening attitude.
Small likeness was there to the portrait now—
Her cheek was crimson, and the soften'd eye
Shed softness over the unsteady brow,
And the lips parted with a half-breathed sigh:
