In that hour she repeated what the merciful eyes of solitude have looked on for ages in the spiritual struggles of man—she besought hardness and coldness and aching weariness to bring her relief from the mysterious incorporeal might of her anguish: she lay on the bare floor and let the night grow cold around her; while her grand woman's frame was shaken by sobs as if she had been a despairing child.
And then he heard accounts of an enchanted isle at sea, A part of the intangible and incorporeal world, With pavilions and fine towers in the five-coloured air, And of exquisite immortals moving to and fro, And of one among them-whom they called The Ever True- With a face of snow and flowers resembling hers he sought.
