His garb was grey of lavender, About his brows a poppy-wreath Burned like dim coals, and everywhere The air was sweeter for his breath.

the noble, young, and fair! Was it a dream?how oft, in sleep, we ask, "Can this be true?" Whilst warm imagination paints her marvels to our view; Earth's glory seems a tarnish'd crown to that which we behold, When dreams enchant our sight with things whose meanest garb is gold!

His garb was grey of lavender, About his brows a poppy-wreath Burned like dim coals, and everywhere The air was sweeter for his breath.

It was only after a period of bewilderment that it dawned upon us that the sepulchral garb and heavy crape veils reaching from head to heel were not necessarily the emblems of widowhood, but might signify some state of minor bereavement.