With pain her gloomy eyes did she uplift,
That Woman Old; with many a tempest torn
Of sins and sorrows spent ere we were born,
Her sallow brow appeared, o'er which a drift
Of massive snow-white hair lay dead and still
Or flew across, by fits, without her will.
There stood before her the enquiring Child:
On the frail lids of his uncentred eyes
Lay no weight heavier than a light surprise;
His tresses soft, like silver undefiled,
Hung on his sunbright face, or in a floating wreath
Clouding his lips, moved mildly with his breath.
A Rock long-bearded with cold weeds marine,
In whose wet womb the ocean-creatures sleep,
Should it uplift its scalp above the deep,
Were likest to that hellish Woman seen;
But he a Lily stood, caressed by eve,
And which the morning mists are loth to leave.