This is the season, this the day, the hour;
  At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine,
  Too long desired, too long delaying, come!
  How like death-worms the wingless moments crawl!
  The point of one white star is quivering still
  Deep in the orange light of widening morn
  Beyond the purple mountains; through a chasm
  Of wind-divided mist the darker lake
  Reflects it; now it wanes; it gleams again
  As the waves fade, and as the burning threads
  Of woven cloud unravel in pale air;
  'T is lost! and through yon peaks of cloudlike snow
  The roseate sunlight quivers; hear I not
  The Æolian music of her sea-green plumes
  Winnowing the crimson dawn?

PANTHEA enters
  I feel, I see
  Those eyes which burn through smiles that fade in tears,
  Like stars half-quenched in mists of silver dew.
  Belovèd and most beautiful, who wearest
  The shadow of that soul by which I live,
  How late thou art! the spherèd sun had climbed
  The sea; my heart was sick with hope, before
  The printless air felt thy belated plumes.