She dwelleth in Elysium; there, Like Echo, floating in the air; Feeding on light as feed the flowers, She fleets away uncounted hours, Where halcyon Peace, among the bless'd, Sits brooding o'er her tranquil nest.
She needs no impulse; one she is, Whom thought supplies with ample bliss: The fancies fashion'd in her mind By Heaven, are after its own kind; Like sky-reflection in a lake, Whose calm no winds occur to break.
Her memory is purified, And she seems never to have sigh'd: She hath forgot the way to weep; Her being is a joyous sleep; The mere imagining of pain, Hath pass'd and cannot come again.
Except of pleasure most intense
And constant, she hath lost all sense; Her life is day without a night, An endless, innocent delight; No changes her happiness now mars Howe'er Fate twine her wreathe of stars.
And palpable and pure, the part
Which pleasure playeth with her heart; For every joy that seeks the maid, Foregoes its common painful shade Like shapes that issue from the grove Arcadian, dedicate to Jove.