As pure in thought as angels are, To know her was to love her. When little, and her eyes, her voice, And, as she grew, her modest grace, Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted; She, who would lead him where he went, Or, hovering, every wish prevent ; (Queen Mab's, perchance, in days of old,) Which, when a tale is long, dispenses Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses. In her who mourned not, when they missed her, No more the orphan runs to take With Frederic blowing bubbles in the sun; (Some story of the days of old, Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told Nor wandering up and down the wood, |