8 
THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. 
Fretted with stars, thrice woven across. 
White limbs in amorous slumber toss, 
 Like sleeping foam, whose silver gleams 
 On motionless dark seas ;  it seems 
As if some gentle spirit stirred 
Their lazy brows with some swift word. 
 
So, in the secret of the shrine, 
 Night keeps them nestled, so the gloom 
Laps them in waves as smooth as wine, 
 As glowing as the fiery womb 
 Of some young tigress, dark as doom, 
And swift as sunrise.  Love’s content 
Builds its own mystic monument, 
 And carves above its vaulted tomb 
 The Phœnix on her fiery plume, 
To their own souls to testify 
Their kisses’ immortality.