As that single want of light and noise
Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts,
And put them into misbecoming plight.
Virtue could see to do what Virtue would
By her own radiant light, though sun and moon
Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self
Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude:
Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation,
She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings.
That in the various bustle of resort
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd.

_Comus._




LORD BYRON.


Around her shone
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone:
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole--
And, oh! that eye was in itself a soul!

_The Bride of Abydos, Canto 1._