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Sella.
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A sweet, eternal murmur, still the same,And not the same; and oft, as spring came on,She gathered violets from its fresh moist bank,To place within her bower, and when the herbsOf stammer drooped beneath the midday sun,She sat within the shade of a great rock,Dreamily listening to the streamlet's song. Ripe were the maiden's years; her stature showedWomanly beauty, and her clear, calm eyeWas bright with venturous spirit, yet her faceWas passionless, like those by sculptor gravedFor niches in a temple. Lovers oftHad wooed her, but she only laughed at love,And wondered at the silly things they said.'Twas her delight to wander where wild vinesO'erhang the river's brim, to climb the pathOf woodland streamlet to its mountain springs,To sit by gleaming wells and mark belowThe image of the rushes on its edge,And, deep beyond, the trailing clouds that slid
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