Chapter IV: The Maiden

Since first I saw your golden head,
Full ten fleet years, O flower, have fled,
Bitter and bright together sped!

Dear child, now to the maiden grown,
Could I but loose from some fair stone
An angel-likeness, all your own!

Yet marble were too cold for you,
And bronze were dark and old for you;
In ivory, then, I mould for you
Your portrait, flower-child, now maiden grown.