like a cloud which had outwept its rain
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And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,
“Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead!
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies
A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.”
Lost Angel of a ruin Paradise!
She knew not ‘twas her own, - as with no stain.
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.
- from “Adonais” by Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1821
