And, as he kiss'd
Her wormy lips, he felt that he was blest!
He felt her holy being stealing through
His own, like fountains of the azure dew,
That summer mingles with his golden light;
And he would clasp her, till the weary night
Was worn away.
* * * * *
And morning rose in form
Of heavy clouds, that knitted into storm
The brow of Heaven, and through her lips the wind
Came rolling westward, with a track behind
Of gloomy billows, bursting on the sea,
All rampant, like great lions terribly,
And gnashing on each other: and anon,
Julio heard them, rushing one by one,
And laugh'd and turn'd.--The hermit was away,
For he was old and weary, and he lay
Within his cave, and thought it was a dream,
A summer's dream? and so the quiet stream
Of sleep came o'er his eyelids, and in truth
He dreamt of that strange ladye, and the youth
That held a death-wake on her wasting form;
And so he slept and woke not, till the storm
Was over.
But they came,--the wind and sea,
And rain and thunder, that in giant glee,
Sang o'er the lightnings pale, as to and fro
They writhed, like stricken angels!--White as snow
Roll'd billow after billow, and the tide
Came forward as an army deep and wide,
To charge with all its waters.
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