His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.

Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper.

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure, all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train.

But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!

The stars, that nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps with everlasting oil, give due light to the misled and lonely traveller.