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And walk through heaven's own citadel,
With stately step and upcast eye,
And brows, on which were deeply wrought,
The fadeless prints of glorious thought.
Ye melt fast away in the dewy chill
O' the moonbeam, but yield to a maiden's will;
Take, ere ye vanish, this guerdon fair,
A long lock of her sun-bright hair;
It was shorn from temples that throbbed with pain,
As the fearful thought wandered through the brain.
That never again, as in days of yore,
It might be her hap to gather lore
From the dropping richness of liquid tones,
That fall from the lips of spiritual ones.
Scorn not my gift—Oh, it is fair,
As, streaming, it follows your course high in air;
And here is a brave and flaunting thing:—
A jolly green garland, braided well
With roses wild, and foxglove bell—
With sage, and rue, and eglantine—
With ivy leaf and holly green.
Three times it was dipped in a faery spring,
And three times spread forth in a faery ring,
