XI

One from a lucid urn of starry dew

Wash’d his light limbs as if embalming them;

Another clipp’d her profuse locks, and threw

The wreath up him, like an anadem,

Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;

Another in her wilful grief would break

Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem

A greater loss with one which was more week;

And dull the barbed fire against his frozen check.