This is no bull, although it sounds so; for
’Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been said.
A third’s all pallid aspect offered more
The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betrayed
Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore
Belovèd and deplored; while slowly strayed
(As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges
The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes’ dark fringes.