A metrical caprice.
Up she rose, fair daughter--well she was graced
As a cloud her going, stept from her chair,
As a summer-soft cloud, in her going paced,
Down dropped her riband-band, and all her waving hair
Shook like loosened music cadent to her waist;--
Lapsing like music, wavery as water,
Slid to her waist.
Francis Thompson
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/chose-vue/
