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The heir of Rookwood.
Ranked palaces, and with slow keels plough up
Their glassy pictures. On my sister's lip
The round notes dwelt, till each in full completeness
Seemed fallen for mellowness, like dropping fruit;
But Lilia's bright-winged song capricious flew
From flower to flower of sound. Here came my mother,
Aged and bent, the windows of her mind
Opaque with wintry frost. With folded hands
And drooping head she sat, while on its wings
The music bore her through a twilight past—
Over the stagnant waters of a lake
Up whose dead waves a phantom city gleamed,
Gleamed up in swaying downward.
Lilia's chamber
Was over mine. I could not see its windows—
But on the turret facing hers, sometimes,
A shadow gliding gently to and fro,
And once when it fell darkly, I could mark
How she had shaken her long tresses down
To braid them for the night coif.
Through my sleep
Even, her light laugh and her elfin tread
Their glassy pictures. On my sister's lip
The round notes dwelt, till each in full completeness
Seemed fallen for mellowness, like dropping fruit;
But Lilia's bright-winged song capricious flew
From flower to flower of sound. Here came my mother,
Aged and bent, the windows of her mind
Opaque with wintry frost. With folded hands
And drooping head she sat, while on its wings
The music bore her through a twilight past—
Over the stagnant waters of a lake
Up whose dead waves a phantom city gleamed,
Gleamed up in swaying downward.
Lilia's chamber
Was over mine. I could not see its windows—
But on the turret facing hers, sometimes,
A shadow gliding gently to and fro,
And once when it fell darkly, I could mark
How she had shaken her long tresses down
To braid them for the night coif.
Through my sleep
Even, her light laugh and her elfin tread
