But not to the dead may the living cling, Nor kneel at an empty shrine;The King is dead, long live the King!" Said the Lady Jaqueline. "Once, caught by the sheen of stars and lace, I bowed for a single day, Watching the smiles that grew dearer and dearer, Listening to lips that grew nearer and nearer; To a poor pretender, mean and base, Oh, to be back in the crimson-topped Unfit for place or sway. That must have been the work of a spell, 66 Said the Lady Jaqueline. By the hand of one I held most dear, And called my liege, my own! I was set aside in a single year, And a new queen shares his throne. To him who is false, and him who is wed, Shall I give my fealty? Nay, the dead one is not half so dead As the false one is to me! My faith to the faithful now I bring, Said the Lady Jaqueline. clover, We have been fashioned for earth, and not heaven; Angels are perfect, I am but a woman; “Yea, all my lovers and kings that Saints may be passionless, Archie is were Are dead, and hid away, In the past, as in a sepulchre, And mine eyes no more can be misled. They have looked on loyalty! Then bring me wine, and garlands bring For my king of the right divine; The King is dead, long live the King!" Said the Lady Jaqueline. human. Say not that heaven hath tenderer blisses To her on whose brow drops the soft rain of kisses; Preach not the promise of priests or evangels, Love-crowned, who asks for the crown of the angels? Yea, all that the wall of pure jasper encloses, Takes not the sweetness from sweet bridal roses! As they creaked against the pane: And those orchard trees, oh those orchard trees! I've seen my little brothers rocked In their tops by the summer breeze. The sweet-briar, under the windowsill, Which the early birds made glad, And the damask rose, by the gardenfence, Were all the flowers we had. I've looked at many a flower since then, Exotics rich and rare, That to other eyes were lovelier For those roses bright, oh, those I have twined them in my sister's That are hid in the dust from sight. We had a well, a deep old well, Where the spring was never dry, And the cool drops down from the mossy stones Were falling constantly; And there never was water half so sweet As the draught which filled my cup, Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep That my father's hand set up. And that deep old well, oh that deep old well! I remember now the plashing sound Of the bucket as it fell. |