LXXII. Because all words, though culled with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Ꮇ Ꭺ Ꭱ Ꮐ Ꭺ Ꭱ Ꭼ Ꭲ . O SWEET pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as though you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Which the moon about her spreadeth, You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lulled echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking through his prison bars? The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day But more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes Touched with a somewhat darker hue, But ever trembling through the dew Of dainty-woful sympathies. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak: Tie up the ringlets on your cheek: The sun is just about to set. The arching limes are tall and shady, And faint, rainy lights are seen, Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, |