THE windy trammel of her dress,
Her blown locks, took my soul in mesh.
God's breath they spake, with visibleness
That stirred the raiment of hér flesh :
And sensible, as her blown locks were,
Beyond the precincts of her form
I felt the woman flow from her-
A cairn of intempestuous storm.
I failed against the affluent tide;
Out of this abject earth of me
I was translated and enskied
Into the heavçnly-regioned She.
Now of that vision I bereaven
This knowledge keep, that may not dim:-
Short arm needs man to reach to Heaven,
So ready is Heaven to stoop to him.
Which sets, to measure of man's feet,
No alien Tree for trysting-place;
And who can read, may read the sweet
Direction in his Lady's face.