XLVII.

Sigismund makes answer‘ NAY.

Though the Highest heaped on me

Trouble, yet the same should be

Welcomer than weal from thee.

Nay;— for ever and ever Nay.’

O, the white-witch floats away.

Look you, look! A still pure smile

Blossoms on her mouth the while,

White wings peakèd high behind,

Bear her;— no, the wafting wind,

For they move not,— floats her back,

Floats her up. They scarce may track

Her swift rising, shot on high

Like a ray from the western sky,

Or a lark from some grey wold

Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold.