The lady to her knightly guest's salute
⁠Turned her face full, so that he marked her eyes, — How dewy gray beneath each long, black lid,
And danger somewhere in their light lay hid.

There are some natures housed so chaste within
⁠Their placid dwellings that their heads control
The tumult of their hearts; and thus they win
⁠A quittance from this pleading of the soul
For Love, whose service does so wound and heal;
How should they crave for what they cannot feel?

From passion and from pain enfranchised quite,
⁠Alike from gain and never-stanched Regret,
Calm as the blind who have not seen the light,
⁠The dumb who hear no precious voice; and yet
The sun forever pours his lambent fire
And the high winds are vocal with desire.
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