The God, dove-footed, glided silently 
Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, 
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed, 
Until he found a palpitating snake, 
Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake. 

She seem’d, at once, some penanced lady elf, 
Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self. 
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire 
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne’s tiar: 
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet! 
She had a woman’s mouth with all its pearls complete: 
And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there 
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?