Year after year unto her feet,
  She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purple coverlet,
  The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown;
On either side her trancèd form        
  Forth streaming from a braid of pearl;
The slumberous light is rich and warm,
  And moves not on the rounded curl.

The silk star-broidered coverlid
  Unto her limbs itself doth mould,         
Languidly ever; and amid
  Her full black ringlets, downward rolled,
Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm,
  With bracelets of the diamond bright.
Her constant beauty doth inform        
  Stillness with love, and day with light.
 
She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
  In palace chambers far apart.
The fragrant tresses are not stirred
  That lie upon her charmèd heart.         
She sleeps; on either hand upswells
  The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
  A perfect form in perfect rest.

 = Cecilia Palmtag