Nel Biancheggiar

Blue-Grey, and white, and white-of-rose,

The flowers of the West's fore-dawn unclose.

I feel the dusky softness whirr

Of colour, as upon a dulcimer

“Her” dreaming fingers lay between the tunes,

As when the living music swoons

But dies not quite, because for love of us

— knowing our state

How that‘ tis troublous —

It wills not die to leave us desolate.