Reddening through the gems of frost

That twinkle on the milk-white thorn,

Softly hesitates the morn

In whom as yet no star is lost.

From skies the colour of her skin,

So touched with golden down, so fair,

Where glittering cypress seems to spin

The black refulgence of her hair,

Clear as a glass the day replies

To every feature save her eyes

But shows their lashes long and fine

Across her cheek by slumber drawn,

As the black needles of the pine

Are feathered on the flush of dawn.