Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
  The zone that clung around her gentle waist
  Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart. 
  Within the centre of that hall to breathe
  She paus’d and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
  The fairy light that kiss’d her golden hair
  And long’d to rest, yet could but sparkle there!

  Young flowers were whispering in melody [21]
  To happy flowers that night—­and tree to tree;
  Fountains were gushing music as they fell
  In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;
  Yet silence came upon material things—­
  Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings—­
  And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
  Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang: 

    “Neath blue-bell or streamer—­
      Or tufted wild spray
    That keeps, from the dreamer,
      The moonbeam away—­[22]
    Bright beings! that ponder,
      With half-closing eyes,
    On the stars which your wonder
      Hath drawn from the skies,
    Till they glance thro’ the shade, and
      Come down to your brow
    Like—­eyes of the maiden
      Who calls on you now—­
    Arise! from your dreaming
      In violet bowers,
    To duty beseeming
      These star-litten hours—­
    And shake from your tresses
      Encumber’d with dew

    The breath of those kisses
      That cumber them too—­
    (O! how, without you, Love! 
      Could angels be blest?)
    Those kisses of true love
      That lull’d ye to rest! 
    Up! shake from your wing
      Each hindering thing: 
    The dew of the night—­
      It would weigh down your flight;
    And true love caresses—­
      O! leave them apart! 
    They are light on the tresses,
      But lead on the heart.

    Ligeia!  Ligeia! 
      My beautiful one! 
    Whose harshest idea
      Will to melody run,
    O! is it thy will
      On the breezes to toss? 
    Or, capriciously still,
      Like the lone Albatross, [23]
    Incumbent on night
      (As she on the air)
    To keep watch with delight
      On the harmony there?

    Ligeia! wherever
      Thy image may be,
    No magic shall sever
      Thy music from thee. 
    Thou hast bound many eyes
      In a dreamy sleep—­
    But the strains still arise
      Which thy vigilance keep—­

    The sound of the rain
      Which leaps down to the flower,
    And dances again
      In the rhythm of the shower—­
    The murmur that springs [24]
      From the growing of grass
    Are the music of things—­
      But are modell’d, alas! 
    Away, then, my dearest,
      O! hie thee away
    To springs that lie clearest
      Beneath the moon-ray—­
    To lone lake that smiles,
      In its dream of