That hit with wondrous aim on the weak point: 
     My Lady’s nose of Nature might complain. 
     It is not fashioned aptly to express
     Her character of large-browed steadfastness. 
     But Madam says:  Thereof she may be vain! 
     Now, Madam’s faulty feature is a glazed
     And inaccessible eye, that has soft fires,
     Wide gates, at love-time, only.  This admires
     My Lady.  At the two I stand amazed.

     XXXVII

     Along the garden terrace, under which
     A purple valley (lighted at its edge
     By smoky torch-flame on the long cloud-ledge
     Whereunder dropped the chariot) glimmers rich,
     A quiet company we pace, and wait
     The dinner-bell in prae-digestive calm. 
     So sweet up violet banks the Southern balm
     Breathes round, we care not if the bell be late: 
     Though here and there grey seniors question Time
     In irritable coughings.  With slow foot
     The low rosed moon, the face of Music mute,
     Begins among her silent bars to climb. 
     As in and out, in silvery dusk, we thread,
     I hear the laugh of Madam, and discern
     My Lady’s heel before me at each turn. 
     Our tragedy, is it alive or dead?

     XXXVIII

     Give to imagination some pure light
     In human form to fix it, or you shame
     The devils with that hideous human game:-
     Imagination urging appetite! 
     Thus fallen have earth’s greatest Gogmagogs,
     Who dazzle us, whom we can not revere: 
     Imagination is the charioteer
     That, in default of better, drives the hogs. 
     So, therefore, my dear Lady, let me love! 
     My soul is arrowy to the light in you. 
     You know me that I never can renew
     The bond that woman broke:  what would you have? 
     ’Tis Love, or Vileness! not a choice between,
     Save petrifaction!  What does Pity here? 
     She killed a thing, and now it’s dead, ’tis dear. 
     Oh, when you counsel me, think what you mean!

     XXXIX

     She yields:  my Lady in her noblest mood
     Has yielded:  she, my golden-crowned rose! 
     The bride of every sense! more sweet than those
     Who breathe the violet breath of maidenhood. 
     O visage of still music in the sky! 
     Soft moon!  I feel thy song, my fairest friend! 
     True harmony within can apprehend
     Dumb harmony without.  And hark! ’tis nigh! 
     Belief has struck the note of sound:  a gleam
     Of living silver shows me where she shook
     Her long white fingers down the shadowy brook,
     That sings her song, half waking, half in dream. 
     What two come here to mar this heavenly tune? 
     A man is one:  the woman bears my name,
     And honour.  Their hands touch!  Am I still tame? 
     God, what a dancing spectre seems the moon!