“I lifted up my eyes. What soul stood there,
Fronting my path? Tall, stately, delicate,
A woman fairer than a pomegranate.
A silver spear her hands of lotus bear,
One shaft of moonlight quivering and straight.
She pointed to the East with flashing eyes:
‘Thou canst not see her—but my Queen shall rise.’
Bowed head and beating heart, with feet unsure
I passed her, trembling, for she was too pure.
I could have loved her. No: she was too wise.
Her presence was to gracious to endure.
‘She did not bid me go and chain me to her,’
I cried, comparing.” [via]