With every stain or silver note,
We saw a mist curling around the throat
Of storms deep and cypress high.
She! In starry flowered tread
Wretched the soul to doom and dust,
As the garden that once healed the lust
But sunk in flames of the lily-bed.
And the choir will gleam
On a twinkling moonlit stream,
Around cypress high and storms of deep,
Yes, it is her pleasure and will,
The voice of jade on a shepherd's hill
That veiled the world for the world to sleep.