’TIS even a delight, dear,

To gaze upon thy face,

To love the life within thee,

Fair fashioned, full of grace.

But in the ark of thy body

The soul hath no resting-place.

And so there is that about thee

Which left me not content,

As the sighing strings of the wind-harp,

Where the wind's weird wailings went,

Or the poor pressed petals that still keep

A thought of the rose's scent.