WHEN I would image her features, Comes up a shrouded head: I touch the outlines, shrinking; She seems of the wandering dead. But when love asks for nothing, And lies on his bed of snow, The face slips under my eyelids, All in its living glow. Like a dark cathedral city, Whose spires, and domes, and towers Quiver in violet lightnings, My soul basks on for hours. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ROSE AND THE BEE by SARA TEASDALE INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG by GEORGE GORDON BYRON WHEN HE WOULD HAVE HIS VERSES READ by ROBERT HERRICK BRIDAL BALLAD by EDGAR ALLAN POE A LEAVE-TAKING by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE |