CIX.

Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping

Concealed her features better than a veil;

And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping,

White, waxen, and as alabaster pale:

Would that I were a painter! to be grouping

All that a poet drags into detail!

Oh that my words were colours! but their tints

May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints.

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