“Once more I behold the face of herWhose actions all had the characterOf an inexpressible charm, expressed;Whose movements flowed from a centre of rest,And whose rest was that of a swallow, rifeWith the instinct of reposing life;Whose mirth had a sadness all the whileIt sparkled and laughed, and whose sadness layIn the heaven of such a crystal smileThat you longed to travel the self-same wayTo the brightness of sorrow. For round her breathedA grace like that of the general air,Which softens the sharp extremes of things,And connects by its subtle, invisible stairThe lowest and the highest. She interwreathedHer mortal obscureness with so much lightOf the world unrisen, that angel’s wingsCould hardly have given her greater rightTo float in the winds of the Infinite.”Edmund Ollier.
“Once more I behold the face of herWhose actions all had the characterOf an inexpressible charm, expressed;Whose movements flowed from a centre of rest,And whose rest was that of a swallow, rifeWith the instinct of reposing life;Whose mirth had a sadness all the whileIt sparkled and laughed, and whose sadness layIn the heaven of such a crystal smileThat you longed to travel the self-same wayTo the brightness of sorrow. For round her breathedA grace like that of the general air,Which softens the sharp extremes of things,And connects by its subtle, invisible stairThe lowest and the highest. She interwreathedHer mortal obscureness with so much lightOf the world unrisen, that angel’s wingsCould hardly have given her greater rightTo float in the winds of the Infinite.”Edmund Ollier.