A shadowy shape that chill'd the night with awe,
Treading the battlements; and like a ghost,
She stretch'd her lovely arms without a flaw,
In shame and longing, to the Argive host.
But all day long within her bower she wept,
Still dreaming of the dames renown'd of old,
Whom hate or love of the Immortals swept
Within the toils of Ate manifold;