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.