She guessed it woven of the spider’s thread, 
And coloured like the river’s changing bed 
Where polished pebbles shine ;  she guessed it frail 
And perfect, with pure wings, like silver pale. 
 
So there, behind the leaves and stems, her lids 
Grew deep with veins of love, and Bassarids 
Racing the dim woods through, beheld her face, 
Whispered together, and desired the place. 
 
The grey was blushing in the Eastern sky 
When there drew near a child of poesy 
With full lips very tender, and grave eyes 
Where deep thoughts dwelt in some delicious wise. 
 
He looked upon the lilies, and a tear 
Dropped on their blossom ;  but a little fear 
Came to the bosom of the violet 
Lest he see not, or see her, and forget. 
 
But he did see her, and drew close, and said : 
“ O perfect passion of my soul, O dead 
Living desire, O sweet unspoken sin, 
Leave thou the lilies ;  they are not thy kin. 
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