Below the star-communing glooms,
Her eyes beneath her hair's perfumes.

I saw the moonbeam sandals on
Her flowerlike feet, that seemed too chaste
To tread true gold: and, like the dawn
On splendid peaks that lord a waste
Of solitude lost gods have graced,
Her face: she stood there, faultless-hipped,
Bound as with cestused silver,--chased
With acorn-cup and crown, and tipped
With oak leaves,--whence her chiton slipped.

Limbs that the gods call loveliness!--
The grace and glory of all Greece
Wrought in one marble shape were less
Than her perfection!--'Mid the trees
I saw her--and time seemed to cease
For me.--And, lo! I lived my old
Greek life again of classic ease,
Barbarian as the myths that rolled
Me back into the Age of Gold.



PRELUDES

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