I answered not, for the Eastern star grew pale,
  But fled to thee.

ASIA
  Thou speakest, but thy words
  Are as the air; I feel them not. Oh, lift
  Thine eyes, that I may read his written soul!

PANTHEA
  I lift them, though they droop beneath the load
  Of that they would express; what canst thou see
  But thine own fairest shadow imaged there?

ASIA
  Thine eyes are like the deep, blue, boundless heaven
  Contracted to two circles underneath
  Their long, fine lashes; dark, far, measureless,
  Orb within orb, and line through line inwoven.

PANTHEA
  Why lookest thou as if a spirit passed?

ASIA
  There is a change; beyond their inmost depth
  I see a shade, a shape: 't is He, arrayed
  In the soft light of his own smiles, which spread
  Like radiance from the cloud-surrounded moon.
  Prometheus, it is thine! depart not yet!
  Say not those smiles that we shall meet again
  Within that bright pavilion which their beams
  Shall build on the waste world? The dream is told.
  What shape is that between us? Its rude hair
  Roughens the wind that lifts it, its regard