The Städel’sche Institut at Frankfurt
A LITTLE wreath of bay about her head,
The Virgin-Martyr stands, touching her wheel
With finger-tips that from the spikes of steel
Shrink, though a thousand years she has been dead.
She bleeds each day as on the day she bled ;
Her pure, gold cheeks are blanched, a cloudy seal
Is on her eyes ; the mouth will never feel
Pity again ; the yellow hairs are spread
Downward as damp with sweat ; they touch the rim
Of the green bodice that to blackness throws
The thicket of bay-branches sharp and trim
Above her shoulder : open landscape glows
Soft and apart behind her to the right,
Where a swift shallop crosses the moonlight.