Again he went
    To his wild work, beside the monument. 
    “Ha! leave, thou moon! where thy footfall hath been
    In sorrow amid heaven! there is sin
    Under thy shadow, lying like a dew;
    So come thou, from thy awful arch of blue,
    Where thou art even as a silver throne
    For some pale spectre-king; come thou alone,
    Or bring a solitary orphan star
    Under thy wings! afar, afar, afar,
    To gaze upon this girl of radiancy,
    In her deep slumbers—­Wake thee, Agathe!”

    And Julio hath stolen the dark chest
    Where the fair nun lay coffin’d, in the rest
    That wakes not up at morning:  she is there,
    An image of cold calm!  One tress of hair
    Lingereth lonely on her snowy brow;
    But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now;
    And their long lashes delicately rest
    On the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west,
    That fall upon a colourless, sad cloud. 
    Humility lies rudely on the proud,
    But she was never proud; and there she is,
    A yet unwither’d flower the autumn breeze
    Hath blown from its green stem!  ’T is pale, ’t is pale,
    But still unfaded, like the twilight veil
    That falleth after sunset; like a stream
    That bears the burden of a silver gleam
    Upon its waters; and is even so,—­
    Chill, melancholy, lustreless, and low!

    Beauty in death! a tenderness upon
    The rude and silent relics, where alone
    Sat the destroyer!  Beauty on the dead! 
    The look of being where the breath is fled! 
    The unwarming sun still joyous in its light! 
    A time—­a time without a day or night! 
    Death cradled upon Beauty, like a bee
    Upon a flower, that looketh lovingly!—­
    Like a wild serpent, coiling in its madness,
    Under a wreath of blossom and of gladness!

    And there she is; and Julio bends o’er
    The sleeping girl,—­a willow on the shore
    Of a Dead Sea! that steepeth its far bough
    Into the bitter waters,—­even now
    Taking a foretaste of the awful trance
    That was to pass on his own countenance!

    Yes! yes! and he is holding his pale lips
    Over her brow; the shade of an eclipse
    Is passing to his heart, and to his eye,
    That is not tearful; but the light will die,
    Leaving it like a moon within a mist,—­
    The vision of a spell-bound visionist!

    He breathed a cold kiss on her ashy cheek,
    That left no trace—­no flush—­no crimson streak,
    But was as bloodless as a marble stone,
    Susceptible of silent waste alone. 
    And on her brow a crucifix he laid—­
    A jewel’d crucifix, the virgin maid
    Had given him before she died.  The moon
    Shed light upon her visage—­clouded soon,
    Then briefly breaking from its airy veil,
    Like warrior lifting up his aventayle.