Her face declined and was unseen; her hair

Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow,

Sweeping the marble underneath her chair,

Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow,

A low, soft ottoman), and black Despair

Stirred up and down her bosom like a billow,

Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check

Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.