—I never saw more perfect loveliness. It ask'd, it had no aid from dress: her robe Was white, and simply gather'd in such folds As suit a statue: neck and arms were bare; The black hair was unbound, and like a veil Hung even to her feet; she held a lute, And, as she paced the ancient gallery, waked A few wild chords, and murmur'd low sweet words, But scarcely audible, as if she thought Rather than spoke:—the night, the solitude, Fill'd the young Pythoness with poetry.
— LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON