chair, preparatory to a dose, while Daisy sat on a stool at
his feet, "I sometimes think that this poem is the most exquisite
definition of one phase of poetry in our language. Musical rhythm, imperial
words, gorgeous color and luxurious conceit, seem to have culminated in it.
And the story itself is so touching that it would be poetical even if
narrated in the plainest prose. How surpassingly beautiful is it, then,
worked out with all the richness of that sweetest poet, who, in intricate
verbal music and dreamy imagery, stands almost alone!"

Mrs. Snarle's head was inclined on one side, and the whole pose of her form
was one of profound attention.

She was fast asleep.

The busy knitting-needles were placid in her motionless fingers; and Pinky,
the kitten, was 'spinning a yarn' on her own account from the ball in Mrs.
Snarle's lap.

"Who was St. Agnes?" asked Daisy.

"She was a saint who suffered martyrdom for her religious views during the
persecution of the Christians in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian. But
let us read the poem, which will make her more immortal than her heroism."

Mortimer opened the book, and his voice touched the verse with new music
for Daisy's ears. Now his tones would be low and sad, as he read of the
old Beadsman, who told his beads in the cold night air,

"While his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven."

Then his voice grew as tender as a lover's, when he came to the place where
Porphyro, concealed, beholds Madeline as she disrobes:

"Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees."

"How few poets know how to handle color!" said Mortimer. "Azure, red,
orange, and all poetic hues are mixed up in their pictures like a shattered
rain-bow! But how artist-like is Keats! His famous window scene has not
been surpassed:

"A casement high and triple-arched there was,
All garlanded with carven imageries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
_Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes_,
_As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings_;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
_And twilight saints and dim emblazonings_,
_A shielded 'scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings_