The rose she gathers is invisible,
But ah! its fragrance on the visioned air—
The scent of Paphian flowers warm and fair;
The breath of blossoms delicate and chill,
By Dian tended on her vestal hill,
And soul of that wan orchid of despair
Found by Persephone, when, unaware,
She bent to pluck, and hell and heaven grew still.
Oh! in what lily’s deep and splendid cup
Shall ever evening dryads hope to find
So marvellous a nectar of delight—
In valleys of enchantment gathered up
By hesitating spirits of the wind,
And borne in rapture to the lips of Night?