Can Such Things Be?

Meseemed that while she played, while lightly yet
  Her fingers fell, as roses bloom by bloom,
  I listened--dead within a mighty room
  Of some old palace where great casements let
  Gaunt moonlight in, that glimpsed a parapet
  Of statued marble: in the arrased gloom
  Majestic pictures towered, dim as doom,
  The dreams of Titian and of Tintoret.
  And then, it seemed, along a corridor,
  A mile of oak, a stricken footstep came.
  Hurrying, yet slow ... I thought long centuries
  Passed ere she entered--she, I loved of yore,
  For whom I died, who wildly wailed my name
  And bent and kissed me on the mouth and eyes.