An Exotic
Not in a climate near the sun
Did the cloud with its trailing fringes float,
Whence, white as the down of an angel's plume,
Fell the snow of her brow and throat.
And the ground had been rich for a thousand years
With the blood of heroes, and sages, and kings,
Where the rose that blooms in her exquisite cheek
Unfolded the flush of its wings.
On a land where the faces are fair, though pale
As a moonlit mist when the winds are still,
She breaks like a morning in Paradise
Through the palms of an orient hill.
Her beauty, perhaps, were all too bright,
But about her there broods some delicate spell,
Whence the wondrous charm of the girl grows soft
As the light in an English dell.
There is not a story of faith and truth
On the starry scroll of her country's fame,
But has helped to shape her stately mien,
And to touch her soul with flame.
I sometimes forget, as she sweeps me a bow,
That I gaze on a simple English maid,
And I bend my head, as if to a queen
Who is courting my lance and blade.
Once, as we read, in a curtained niche,
A poet who sang of her sea-throned isle,
There was something of Albion's mighty Bess
In the flash of her haughty smile.
She seemed to gather from every age
All the greatness of England about her there,
And my fancy wove a royal crown
Of the dusky gold of her hair.
But it was no queen to whom that day,
In the dim green shade of a trellised vine,
I whispered a hope that had somewhat to do
With a small white hand in mine.
The Tudor had vanished, and, as I spoke,
'T was herself looked out of her frank brown eye,
And an answer was burning upon her face,
Ere I caught the low reply.
What was it! Nothing the world need know --
The stars saw our parting! Enough, that then
I walked from the porch with the tread of a king,
And she was a queen again!
poem by Henry Timrod
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To The Queen Of England
COME forth! the world's aflame with flags and flowers,
The shout of bells fills full the shattered air,
This is the crown of all your golden hours,
More than all other hours august and fair;
This did the years prepare,
A triumph for our Lady and our Queen,
More rich than any king in any land hath seen.
Clothed are your streets with scarlet, gold, and blue,
Flowers under foot and banners over head,
And while your people's voice storms Heaven for you
About your way are voiceless blessings shed,
And over you are spread
Wide wings of love, free love, tamed to your hand,
Love that gold cannot buy, nor Majesty command.
Not these mere visible millions only, share
Your triumph--here all English hearts beat high,
Nations far off your royal colours wear,
And swell with unheard voice this loyal cry
That strikes the English sky:
A cloud of unseen witnesses is here
To testify how great is England's Queen, and dear.
From out the grey-veiled past, long years away,
Come visionary faces, vision-led,
And splendid shapes that are not of our day,
The spirits of the mute and mighty dead,
To see how Time has sped
The fortunes of their England, and behold
How much more great she is than in the days of old.
The world can see them not; but you can see--
You the inheritor of all the past
Wherein the dead, in noble heraldry,
Blazoned the shield of England, and forecast
The charge it bears at last--
More splendid than the azure and the or
Of the French lilies lost--long lost and sorrowed for.
Here be the weaponed men, the English folk,
Who in long ships across the swan's bath fared,
In whose rude tongue the voice of Freedom spoke,
In whose rough hands the sword was bright and bared--
The men who did and dared,
And to their sons bequeathed the fighting blood
That drives to Victory and will not be withstood.
Here, in your ordered festival, O Queen,
Mixed with the crowd and all unseen of these,
On their long swords the wild Norse rovers lean
And watch the progress of your pageantries,
And on this young June breeze
Float the bright pennons of the Cressy spears--
Shine shadowy shafts that fell, as snow falls, at Poitiers.
Here flutter phantom flags that once flew free
Above the travail of the tournament;
Here gleam old swords, once wet for Liberty;
Old blood-stiff banners, worn with war and rent,
Are with your fresh flowers blent,
And by your crown, where love and fame consort,
Shines the unvanquished cloven crown of Agincourt.
Upon your river where, by day and night,
Your world-adventuring ships come home again,
Glide ghostly galleons, manned by men of might
Who plucked the wings and singed the beard of Spain;
The men who, not in vain,
Saved to the children of a world new-trod
The birth-tongue of our land, her freedom, and her God.
Princes who lived to make our England great,
Poets who wreathed her greatness with their song,
Wise men who steered her heavy ship of State,
Brave men who steered her battle-ships along,
In spectral concourse throng
To applaud the consummated power and pride
Of that belovèd land for which they lived and died.
The thousand un-named heroes who, sword-strong,
Ploughed the long acre wherein Empire grows
Wide as the world, and long as Time is long--
These mark the crescence of the English rose
Whose thorny splendour glows
O'er far-off subject lands, by alien waves,
A crown for England's brow, a garland for her graves.
And faces out of unforgotten years,
Faces long hidden by death's misty screen,
Faces you still can scarcely see for tears,
Will smile on you to-day and near you lean,
O Mother, Wife, and Queen!
With whispered love too sacred and too dear
For any ear than yours, Mother and Wife, to hear.
Lady, the crowd will vaunt to-day your fame,
Daughter and heir of many mighty kings,
The Queen of England, whose imperial name
From England's heart and lips tumultuous springs
In prayers and thanksgivings,
Because your greatness and her greatness shine
Merged each in each, as stars their beams that intertwine.
Yet in the inmost heart, where folded close
The richest treasures of the poorest lie,
Love, whose clear eyes see many secrets, knows
A nobler name than Queen to call you by,
And breathes it silently;
But, 'mid His listening crowd of angels, One
Shall speak your name and say, 'Faithful and good, well done!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Dedication - To K.S.G.
Fair Saxon, in my lover's creed,
My love were smaller than your meed,
And you might justly deem it slight,
As wanting truth as well as sight,
If, in that image which is shrined
Where thoughts are sacred, you could find
A single charm, or more or less,
Than you to all kind eyes possess.
To me, even in the happiest dreams,
Where, flushed with love's just dawning gleams,
My hopes their radiant wings unfurl,
You're but a simple English girl,
No fairer, grace for grace arrayed,
Than many a simple Southern maid;
With faults enough to make the good
Seem sweeter far than else it would;
Frank in your anger and your glee,
And true as English natures be,
Yet not without some maiden art
Which hides a loving English heart.
Still there are moments, brief and bright,
When fancy, by a poet's light,
Beholds you clothed with loftier charms
Than love e'er gave to mortal arms.
A spell is woven on the air
From your brown eyes and golden hair,
And all at once you seem to stand
Before me as your native land,
With all her greatness in your guise,
And all her glory in your eyes;
And sometimes, as if angels sung,
I hear her poets on your tongue.
And, therefore, I, who from a boy
Have felt an almost English joy
In England's undecaying might,
And England's love of truth and right,
Next to my own young country's fame
Holding her honor and her name,
I -- who, though born where not a vale
Hath ever nursed a nightingale,
Have fed my muse with English song
Until her feeble wing grew strong --
Feel, while with all the reverence meet
I lay this volume at your feet,
As if through your dear self I pay,
For many a deep and deathless lay,
For noble lessons nobly taught,
For tears, for laughter, and for thought,
A portion of the mighty debt
We owe to Shakespeare's England yet!
poem by Henry Timrod
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Snow-White (Part 1)
Hers were the beautiful blue eyes and the black long hair,
She watched her blood dropp freezing to burn in the air.
Her pale lips were keeping the mark of her love's glow,
She wanted a child having the skin as white as the snow,
The hair as black as ebony and the lips as red as the blood.
That red on that white looked as beautiful as a flower bud.
She was sewing and watching the ebony of her window's frame.
An angel became visible in the air to tell her the child's name.
''Light up this love, my Lord, and give me this child of light
Unbearable is this pain of mine, light up my soul and my sight.''
Coming up the stairs, the king saw this and he told his queen,
'This white angel is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen! ''
The queen's heart used to be like a little book being unread,
But in front of her husband, it has become an open thread.
He tenderly kissed her, ''Your broken heart is no longer dead,
Because for Snow White on the snow your secret has bled.''
When she gave birth to her child, the sun rose to be so bright
And everything in the castle could be seen in the holy light,
But when the king came to see them, he heard only the sighs.
When he saw his dead queen, sad tears flooded his black eyes.
While he was living with his child being a lonely sad father,
The king thought to bring to little Snow White a new mother.
''Light up this life, my Lord, because I have only fears and sighs,
Change my fate, because I need a new morn in my sad eyes! ''
He married again, but the queen's heart was mercilessly beating.
She was like a dangerous snake and poisoned was her greeting.
Her sarcastic lips were always keeping the mark of her hatred,
Her powers were hidden, because for her the devil was sacred.
She kept her frozen air, although the snow was melting in Spring,
Her words could remain suspended in the air to freeze everything.
‘'Mirror, dear Mirror on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all?
‘'You, my queen, are fairest of all'', echoed the mirror in the hall.
The Snow White grew up becoming more beautiful than the queen,
The king told her, 'You're the most beautiful child I have ever seen! ''
When the mirror told the queen, ‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true.
She added, ''Little Snow-White is still a thousand times fairer than you.''
The king started seriously to think of the passion they had known
‘Cause the queen's self-satisfaction and insensibility have grown.
He realized that it's a wretchedness to continue sharing their bed.
He wanted to open a dialog with her, but the words left all unsaid.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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The Chapel Royal St. James’s, On The 10th February, 1840
I.
ONCE more the people meet,
With glad expectant faces: once again
The fair young monarch and her lovely train,
With slow and gentle feet,
Move in a solemn ceremony on;
And jewels glitter in the morning sun!
II.
Not long, oh! Time, not long
It seems, since crown'd as Britain's welcome Queen,
The like fair sight in fair array was seen;
And the hush'd listening throng,
Watching those steps thro' Westminster's proud aisle,
Wept with full hearts, tho' joyous all the while.
III.
And they come forth anew,
In bridal white, that gentle virgin band,
The chosen flowers of Britain's happy land;
For holy love and true
Hath wrought an hour of hope without alloy--
A fairy sight of splendour and of joy.
IV.
There,--with her locks of light,
Gleaming like gold around her noble head,--
The orphan'd ELEANOR, with stately tread,
Went by, a vision bright;
Bidding sweet thoughts of love and triumph start
Into a father's nd a sister's heart.
V.
There,--in her beauty, pass'd
Young FRANCES COWPER; her transparent cheek
Blushing the greetings which she might not spea,
As on the crowd she cast
The shy soft glances of those dark-blue eyes,
In whose untom'd depth such sweetness lies!
VI.
There, with her spotless name,
The gentle HOWARD, good, and fair, and mild,
And bright-eyed BOUVERIE, noble Radnor's child,
And rose-bud VILLIERS came;
And, with her sweet frank smile, young IDA HAY,
Looking all gladness, like a morn in May.
VII.
There, brilliant LENNOX moved;
The Paget beauty shining from her brow,
And the dark, deer-like eyes that glanced below:
While, gentle and beloved,
Amid the glories of that courtly throng,
DELAWARE'S youthful daughter pass'd along.
VIII.
There, (theme for poet's praise!)
With swanlike throat, and clear majestic eye,
VERULAM's stately MARY glided by,
And, with her quiet gaze
Fixed smiling on the scene which she survey'd,
The soldier ANGLESEA'S bright ADELAIDE.
IX.
And she, whose orbs of blue,
Like mountain lakes beheld by moonlight, gleam
With all the shadowy softness of a dream
Such as Endymion knew:
Whose glossy locks with rich luxuriance twine
Around her brow: the Lady WILHELMINE.
X.
Young were they all--and fair,--
But thou, VICTORIA, held'st thy fitting place,
As amongst garden-flowers the lily's grace,
Blooms with a royal air;
And from that lovely various group, apart,
Dids't stand, and gently look the Queen thou art.
XI.
The smile thy young lip wore,
Spoke joy to Him, who, from his distant home,
Hath sped in wintry time o'er ocean's foam--
To seek our island shore,
With his frank heart, and brow so fair and true,
Claiming thy love-and England's welcome too.
XII.
Oh! may that welcome prove
The herald of deep gladness;--since in thee
Old England's brightest hopes renew'd we see,
All-hallow'd be thy love;
And still with proud content the day allied,
When Princely ALBERT claim'd his Royal Bride!
XIII.
May He, whose gifted hand,
Hath twined sweet wreaths of Poetry and Song;
Live happy among English heart so long
That, native to the land,
He shall forget that e'er his harp was strung
To any accents but our mother-tongue:
XIV.
And Thou,--Oh! may the Crown
Which in youth's freshest, earliest moment, graced
The brow, whose childhood's roses it replaced,
Ne'er weigh thy spirit down;
Nor tearful hours, nor careful thoughts, beguile
One ray of gladness from thy gracious smile:
XV.
But brightly to the last,
Fair Fortune shine, with calm and steady ray,
Upon the tenor of thy happy way;
A future like the past:
And every prayer by loyal subjects said,
Bring down a separate blessing on thy head!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Vashti
She leaned her head upon her hand
And heard the King's decree --
"My lords are feasting in my halls;
Bid Vashti come to me.
"I've shown the treasures of my house,
My costly jewels rare,
But with the glory of her eyes
No rubies can compare.
"Adorn'd and crown'd I'd have her come,
With all her queenly grace,
And, 'mid my lords and mighty men,
Unveil her lovely face.
"Each gem that sparkles in my crown,
Or glitters on my throne,
Grows poor and pale when she appears,
My beautiful, my own!"
All waiting stood the chamberlains
To hear the Queen's reply.
They saw her cheek grow deathly pale,
But light flash'd to her eye:
"Go, tell the King," she proudly said,
"That I am Persia's Queen,
And by his crowds of merry men
I never will be seen.
"I'll take the crown from off my head
And tread it 'neath my feet,
Before their rude and careless gaze
My shrinking eyes shall meet.
"A queen unveil'd before the crowd! --
Upon each lip my name! --
Why, Persia's women all would blush
And weep for Vashti's shame!
"Go back!" she cried, and waved her hand,
And grief was in her eye:
"Go, tell the King," she sadly said,
"That I would rather die."
They brought her message to the King;
Dark flash'd his angry eye;
'Twas as the lightning ere the storm
Hath swept in fury by.
Then bitterly outspoke the King,
Through purple lips of wrath --
"What shall be done to her who dares
To cross your monarch's path?"
Then spake his wily counsellors --
"O King of this fair land!
From distant Ind to Ethiop,
All bow to thy command.
"But if, before thy servants' eyes,
This thing they plainly see,
That Vashti doth not heed thy will
Nor yield herself to thee,
"The women, restive 'neath our rule,
Would learn to scorn our name,
And from her deed to us would come
Reproach and burning shame.
"Then, gracious King, sign with thy hand
This stern but just decree,
That Vashti lay aside her crown,
Thy Queen no more to be."
She heard again the King's command,
And left her high estate;
Strong in her earnest womanhood,
She calmly met her fate,
And left the palace of the King,
Proud of her spotless name --
A woman who could bend to grief,
But would not bow to shame.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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A Song For Peace And Honour
TO THE QUEEN
LADY and Queen, for whom our laurels twine,
Upon whose head the glories of our land
In one immortal diadem are met,
Embodied England, in whose woman-hand
The sceptre of Imperial sway is set,
Receive this song of mine!
For you are England, and her bays grow green
To deck your brow, your goodness lends her grace,
And in our hearts your face is as Her face;
The Mother-Country is the Mother-Queen.
We, men of England, children of her might,
With all our Mother's record-roll of glory,
Great with her greatness, noble by her name,
Drank with our mothers' milk our Mother's story,
And in our veins the splendour of her fame
Made strong our blood and bright;
And to her absent sons her name has been
Familiar music heard in distant lands,
Heart of our heart and sinews of our hands,
England, our Mother, our Mistress and our Queen!
Out of the thunderous echoes of the past
Through the gold-dust of centuries we hear
Her voice, 'O children of a royal line,
Sons of her heart, whom England holdeth dear,
Mine was the Past--make ye the future mine
All glorious to the last!'
And, as we hear her, cowards grow to men,
And men to heroes, and the voice of fear
Is as a whisper in a deaf man's ear,
And the dead past is quick in us again.
Her robe is woven of glory and renown,
Hers are the golden-laden Argosies,
And lordship of the wild and watery ways,
Her flag is blown across the utmost seas:
Dead nations built her throne, and kingdoms blaze
For jewels in her crown.
Her Empire like a girdle doth enfold
The world; her feet upon her foes are set;
She wears the steel-wrought, blood-bright amulet
Won by her children in the days of old.
Yet in a treasury of such gems as these
Which power and sovereignty and kingship fill
To the vast limit of the circling sun,
England, our Mother, in her heart holds still,
As her most precious jewel, save only one,
The priceless pearl of peace--
Peace plucked from out the very heart of war
Through the long agony of strenuous years,
Made pure by blood and sanctified by tears,
A pearl to lie where England's treasures are.
O peaceful English lanes all white with may,
O English meadows where the grass grows tall,
O red-roofed village, field and farm and fold
Where the long shadows of the elm-trees fall
On the wide pastures which the sun calls gold
And twilit dew calls gray;--
These are the home, the happy cradle-place
Of every man who has our English tongue,
Sprung from those loins from which our sires have sprung,
Heirs of the glory of our mighty race!
Brothers, we hold the pearl of priceless worth:
Shall Peace, our pearl, by us be cast aside?
Is it not more to us than all things are?
Nay, Peace is precious as the world is wide,
But England's honour is more precious far
Than all the heavens and earth.
Were honour outcast from her supreme place
Our pearl of Peace no more a pearl would shine,
But, trampled under-foot of cowards and swine,
Rot in the mire of a deserved disgrace.
Know then, O ye our brothers over sea,
We will not cast our pearl of Peace away,
But, holding it, we wait; and if, at last,
The whole world came against us in array,
If all our glory into darkness passed,
Our Empire ceased to be,
Yet should we still have chosen the better part
Though in the dust our kingdoms were cast down,
Though lost were every jewel in our crown
We still should wear our jewel in our heart.
So, for our Mother's honour, if it must
Let Peace be lost, but lost the worthier way;
Not trampled down, but given, for her sake
Who forged of many an iron yesterday
The golden song that gold-tongued fame shall wake
When we are dust, in dust:
For brotherhood and strife and praise and blame
And all the world, even to our very land,
Weighed in the balance, are as a grain of sand
Against the honour of our English name!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Queen's Rival
QUEEN GULNAAR sat on her ivory bed,
Around her countless treasures were spread;
Her chamber walls were richly inlaid
With agate, porphory, onyx and jade;
The tissues that veiled her delicate breast,
Glowed with the hues of a lapwing's crest;
But still she gazed in her mirror and sighed
"O King, my heart is unsatisfied."
King Feroz bent from his ebony seat:
"Is thy least desire unfulfilled, O Sweet?
"Let thy mouth speak and my life be spent
To clear the sky of thy discontent."
"I tire of my beauty, I tire of this
Empty splendour and shadowless bliss;
"With none to envy and none gainsay,
No savour or salt hath my dream or day."
Queen Gulnaar sighed like a murmuring rose:
"Give me a rival, O King Feroz."
II
King Feroz spoke to his Chief Vizier:
"Lo! ere to-morrow's dawn be here,
"Send forth my messengers over the sea,
To seek seven beautiful brides for me;
"Radiant of feature and regal of mien,
Seven handmaids meet for the Persian Queen."
. . . . .
Seven new moon tides at the Vesper call,
King Feroz led to Queen Gulnaar's hall
A young queen eyed like the morning star:
"I bring thee a rival, O Queen Gulnaar."
But still she gazed in her mirror and sighed:
"O King, my heart is unsatisfied."
Seven queens shone round her ivory bed,
Like seven soft gems on a silken thread,
Like seven fair lamps in a royal tower,
Like seven bright petals of Beauty's flower
Queen Gulnaar sighed like a murmuring rose
"Where is my rival, O King Feroz?"
III
When spring winds wakened the mountain floods,
And kindled the flame of the tulip buds,
When bees grew loud and the days grew long,
And the peach groves thrilled to the oriole's song,
Queen Gulnaar sat on her ivory bed,
Decking with jewels her exquisite head;
And still she gazed in her mirror and sighed:
"O King, my heart is unsatisfied."
Queen Gulnsar's daughter two spring times old,
In blue robes bordered with tassels of gold,
Ran to her knee like a wildwood fay,
And plucked from her hand the mirror away.
Quickly she set on her own light curls
Her mother's fillet with fringes of pearls;
Quickly she turned with a child's caprice
And pressed on the mirror a swift, glad kiss.
Queen Gulnaar laughed like a tremulous rose:
"Here is my rival, O King Feroz."
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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Snow-White (Part 4)
While the queen's dogs were howling into the broken night to throw away
The forces, the queen was preparing the poison for the Snow White's birthday.
The poison was melted into blood and dew by that queen with innocent eyes.
Her beggars jumped over the moon for a ritual dance of a princess, who dies.
Her crows were flying in the wind being so proud of what they have done,
Her dress could hide the truth so well, with her mask she enjoyed the fun.
''I'm having bodice laces for sale, '' she said knocking on the dwarfs' door.
Then, she pulled the laces so tight that Snow-White fell down on the floor.
The sun hid behind the sea of clouds not to see the Snow White's death,
The dwarfs came home and found her on the floor without having breath.
They cut the bodice laces in two and Snow White could come back to life,
''She will give you poison to drink in sips and you will die without any strife.''
‘'Mirror, on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all? '' Queen wanted to know.
‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true, '' replied the bad mirror through its glow.
''But beyond the seven mountains, in the dwarfs' house, Little Snow-White
Is a thousand times fairer than you, moreover, her future is extremely bright! '
She poisoned a comb and went out to knock again on the Snow White's door,
When she stuck the comb into the girl's hair, the girl fell down on the floor.
When the seven dwarfs returned home, they drowned in their own despair,
But she opened her eyes, when Liar pulled the poisoned comb from her hair.
‘'Mirror, on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all? '' Queen wanted to know.
‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true, '' replied the bad mirror through its glow.
''But beyond the seven mountains, in the dwarfs' house, Little Snow-White
Is a thousand times fairer than you, moreover, her future is extremely bright! '
Everything was grey, while the queen was saying her mystic words aloud,
Inside her dark castle's granite walls, even the signs of time were not allowed.
Only lonesome birds and souls were flying there above a big fragile shroud,
Only craggy faces and weary eyes could be seen there in a demonic crowd.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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The Coronation Of Inez De Castro
There was music on the midnight;
From a royal fane it roll'd,
And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly toll'd.
Strange was their mingling in the sky,
It hush'd the listener's breath;
For the music spoke of triumph high,
The lonely bell, of death.
There was hurrying through the midnight:-
A sound of many feet;
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness,
Along the shadowy street;
And softer, fainter, grew their tread,
As it near'd the Minster-gate,
Whence broad and solemn light was shed
From a scene of royal state.
Full glow'd the strong red radiance
In the centre of the nave,
Where the folds of a purple canopy
Sweep down in many a wave;
Loading the marble pavement old
With a weight of gorgeous gloom;
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold,
Like a shadow of the tomb.
And within that rich pavilion
High on a glittering throne,
A woman's form sat silently,
Midst the glare of light alone.
Her Jewell'd robes fell strangely still-
The drapery on her breast
Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill,
So stone-like was its rest.
But a peal of lordly music
Shook e'en the dust below,
When the burning gold of the diadem
Was set on her pallid brow!
Then died away that haughty sound,
And from th' encircling band,
Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound,
With homage to her hand.
Why pass'd a faint cold shuddering
Over each martial frame,
As one by one, to touch that hand,
Noble and leader came?
Was not the settled aspect fair?
Did not a queenly grace,
Under the parted ebon hair.
Sit on the pale still face?
Death, Death! canst
thou
be lovely
Unto the eye of Life?
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast
With thy cold mien at strife?
-It was a strange and fearful sight,
The crown upon that head,
The glorious robes and the blaze of light,
All gather'd round the Dead!
And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale,
And white lips rigidly compress'd,
Lest the strong heart should fail;
King Pedro with a jealous eye
Watching the homage done
By the land's flower and chivalry
To her, his martyr'd one.
But on the face he look'd not
Which once his star had been:
To every form his glance was turn'd,
Save of the breathless queen;
Though something, won from the grare's embrace,
Of her beauty still was there,
Its hues were all of that shadowy place,
'Twas not for
him
to bear.
Alas! the crown, the sceptre,
The treasures of the earth,
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts,
Alike of wasted worth!
The rites are closed-bear back the Dead
Unto the chamber deep,
Lay down again the royal head,
Dust with the dust to sleep.
There is music on the midnight-
A requiem sad and slow.
As the mourners through the sounding aisle
In dark procession go,
And the ring of state, and the starry crown,
And all the rich array,
Are borne to the house of silence down,
With her, that queen of clay.
And tearlessly and firmly,
King Pedro led the train-
But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,
When they lower'd the dust again.
-'Tis hush'd at last, the tomb above,
Hymns die, and steps depart:
Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love?
Mightier
thou wert and art!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf IV. -- Queen Sigrid The Haughty
Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft
In her chamber, that looked over meadow and croft.
Heart's dearest,
Why dost thou sorrow so?
The floor with tassels of fir was besprent,
Filling the room with their fragrant scent.
She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine,
The air of summer was sweeter than wine.
Like a sword without scabbard the bright river lay
Between her own kingdom and Norroway.
But Olaf the King had sued for her hand,
The sword would be sheathed, the river be spanned.
Her maidens were seated around her knee,
Working bright figures in tapestry.
And one was singing the ancient rune
Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun.
And through it, and round it, and over it all
Sounded incessant the waterfall.
The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold,
From the door of Ladé's Temple old.
King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift,
But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift.
She had given the ring to her goldsmiths twain,
Who smiled, as they handed it back again.
And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way,
Said, 'Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, say?'
And they answered: 'O Queen! if the truth must be told,
The ring is of copper, and not of gold!'
The lightning flashed o'er her forehead and cheek,
She only murmured, she did not speak:
'If in his gifts he can faithless be,
There will be no gold in his love to me.'
A footstep was heard on the outer stair,
And in strode King Olaf with royal air.
He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered of love,
And swore to be true as the stars are above.
But she smiled with contempt as she answered: 'O King,
Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the ring?'
And the King: 'O speak not of Odin to me,
The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be.'
Looking straight at the King, with her level brows,
She said, 'I keep true to my faith and my vows.'
Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with gloom,
He rose in his anger and strode through the room.
'Why, then, should I care to have thee?' he said,--
'A faded old woman, a heathenish jade!
His zeal was stronger than fear or love,
And he struck the Queen in the face with his glove.
Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled,
And the wooden stairway shook with his tread.
Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her breath,
'This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death!'
Heart's dearest,
Why dost thou sorrow so?
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
Lord Thomas and fair Annet
Sat all day on a hill
When night was come and sun was set
They had not talked their fill.
Lord Thomas said a word in haste
And Annet took it ill;
I winna wed a dowerless maid
Against my parents' will
You're come of the rich, Thomas,
And I'm come of the poor
I'm o'er low to be your bride
And I winna be your whore
O fair Annet, O fair Annet
This night you've said me no
But long or ever this day month
I'll make your heart right woe
Come riddle my riddle dear mother, he said
Come riddle it all in one
Whether I will take fair Annet
Or bring the brown girl home
The nut-brown maid has gold and gear
Fair Annet she has none
And the little beauty fair Annet has
O it will soon be gone
Sheep will die in cots, mother
And oxen die in byre
And what's this world's wealth to me
An I get not my heart's desire
Where will I get a pretty little boy
That'll run my errands soon
That will run to fair Annet's bower
And bid her to my wedding
She mauna put on the black, the black
Nor yet the dowie brown
But the scarlet so red, and the kerchief so white
And her bonny locks hanging down
She has called her maries to her bower
To lay gold in her hair
Where'er you put a plait before
See you lay ten times more
When Annet was in her saddle set
She flamed against the fire
The girdle around her middle small
Was worth an earl's hire
The horse fair Annet rode upon
He bounded like the wind
With silver he was shod before
With burning gold behind
And when she came into the kirk
She shimmered like the sun
The belt that was about her waist
Was all with pearls bedone
Is this your bride, Lord Thomas ? she said
I think she's wondrous brown
You might have had as fair a bride
As e'er the sun shined on
Despise her not fair Annet, he said
Despise her not now unto me
For better I love thy little finger
Than all her whole body
Then out and spoke the nut-brown bride
And she spoke out of spite
O where got you that rose-water
That washed your face so white ?
O I did get the rose-water
Where you will ne'er get none
For I did get that rose-water
Into my mother's womb
The bride she drew a long bodkin
From out her gay headgear
And struck fair Annet to the heart
A deep wound and a sair
O art thou blind Lord Thomas, she said
Or do you not well see
O do you not see my own heart's blood
Run trinkling down my knee ?
He drew his dagger that was so sharp
That was so sharp and meet
And drove it into the nut-brown bride
That fell dead at his feet
O dig my grave, Lord Thomas he said
Dig it both wide and deep
And lay fair Annet by my side
And the brown girl at my feet
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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I would rather be the Queen's English
given the chance to
to be Queen of England
or the Queen's English
(Queen of English)
I would pick the latter
with not a wink of the eye
more power have i
than the queen
tap, tap, tap
as i summon my men, women,
on the computer
they would come running
to take their rightful place
to carry out my ambition
to shape, shake up world
men, women, children
in the wrong place
are all thrown out
exterminated from their lines
tap tap tap and they are purged never to be seen
it is done so efficiently
it is quieter than
the dropp of a hairpin
the best world's secret police would even stand in awe
the queen of english
is also a queen of terror
worse than hitler's men
when it comes to her ambition
and right representation of her spirit
not a word is allowed to play truant
whenever her muse comes
visiting, clothing them
up to dazzle their way
into everybody's heart
is her prime concern
line up all of you words!
i am your queen
be at the right place
and stay in line
or else a single tap
and you blink into oblivion
not a single space
is allowed
for disloyalty
the Queen of the
English Language
is but a fastidious queen
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Peddling Round the World
When at first in foreign parts
Was her flag unfurled,
England was a Gipsy lass
Peddling round the world.
Sailing on the Spanish Main—
Everywhere you roam—
Peddling in the Persian Gulf
Things she’d made at home.
Peddling round the world,
Peddling round the world—
England was a Gipsy lass
Peddling round the world.
England never wanted war,
Not on land or sea—
Other nations rising up
Couldn’t let her be.
England only wanted peace,
And the ocean’s breath;
So there came, in course of time,
Queen Elizabeth.
Queen Elizabeth—
Queen Elizabeth—
Came a plain, bad-tempered queen,
Called Elizabeth.
Queen Elizabeth, she called
Drake, and Raleigh too—
Essex, Howard, and the rest
Of the pirate crew;
“See what you can do,” she said.
“England’s feeling sick—
If you don’t, I’ll hang you all!
Better do it quick.”
“Better do it quick,” she said—
“Better do it quick”;
And they knew she’d keep her word,
So they did it quick.
Drake and Raleigh sailed away—
(Only Bess they feared)
Cleared the Spanish Main and singed
The King of Spain his beard—
Singed the King of Spain his beard,
And his hair they curled.
England was a Gipsy’s love
Peddling round the world.
Peddling round the world,
Peddling round the world.
England was a Gipsy’s love
Peddling round the world.
Once again, when Cromwell came,
England wanted room;
So he lowered Holland’s tone,
Smashed the Dutchman’s broom.
Sent a message to Algiers;
Made its meaning plain—
On the way they called once more
On the King of Spain.
On the King of Spain—
On the King of Spain:
Called, to jog his memory,
On the King of Spain.
So the years went round and round,
Over hills and flats—
England was a Gipsy wife—
England had her brats;
Peddling in the China Sea,
Far from English ground;
Doing biz with Mrs. Jap—
Peddling all around.
Peddling all around—
Peddling all around;
Making friends with Mrs. Jap—
Peddling all around.
When the war is past and gone,
With its blood and tears;
And the world may count upon
Peace for fifty years—
When the gory battle-flags
Round their sticks are furled—
Then you’ll see a Gipsy crone
Peddling round the world.
Peddling round the world—
Peddling round the world.
Then you’ll see a Gipsy crone
A-peddling round the world!
Shawl as old as Joseph’s coat,
Hair as white as snow,
Mind as bright as Seventeen—
Eyes still like the sloe—
Peddling in the Southern Seas—
Everywhere you roam—
And she’ll fill her baskets here
With things we’ll make at home.
Things we’ll make at home—
Things we’ll make at home—
Call to fill her baskets here
With things we’ll make at HOME.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Ballad IV
Farewell, my lady dear and dread,
Farewell, of all sovereign and queen,
Farewell, perfect and sacred head,
Farewell, who dost all honour mean,
Farewell, true heart, loyal and clean,
Farewell, best flower the world doth bear,
Farewell, yet not farewell, O white and fair !
Farewell, O wise, that no ill said,
Farewell, river that made life green,
Farewell, in whom fame harboured,
Farewell, voice that all ears could win,
Farewell, solace of all my teen,
Farewell, whose grace is wide as air,
Farewell, yet not farewell, O white and fair !
Farewell, soft look that through me sped,
Farewell, more fair than Helen queen,
Farewell, body and sweet soul wed,
Farewell, thou most gracious demesne,
Farewell, pole-star, joyous and keen,
Farewell, fountain of valour rare,
Farewell, yet not farewell, O white and fair !
Farewell, Princess of noblest mien,
Farewell, thou aweing smile serene,
Farewell, without fault, sin's despair,
Farewell, yet not farewell, O white and fair !
poem by Christine de Pizan
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Fanciful Dream
I left my love in the Fairy Glen
Home of the litte fairy men
I met her there on a July night
When a Summer moon was beaming bright.
For my love was the Fairy Queen
In Fairyland she reign supreme
She wore a glittering diamond cloak
Queen of the little fairy folk.
Though the night was bright it was bright as day
In a wooded vale I lost my way
Then I sat me down by a tall oak tree
And the Fairy Queen she came to me.
I gazed upon this fairy small
She stood scarcely more than two foot tall
Tiny shoes covered her tiny feet
And she bowed towards me in a fairy greet
Her pretty little face showed no trace of woe
And her hair was white as new fallen snow
And her eyes were sparkling bright and brown
And on her head she wore a tiny crown.
Then she smiled at me and this did say
You're in Fairyland you have lost your way
Sorry to disturb you from your rest
Come along with me and be my guest.
Then she led me to the fairy ball
To a fairy dance in a fairy hall
All the fairy folk were dancing there
And fairy music filled the air.
But when we stepped inside the fairy dance hall door
A hushed silence fell across the floor
Fairy men and women scarce one third my size
All looked up at me with fear in their eyes.
But their Queen she spoke to them and said
Of this gentle giant you need hold no dread
I met him in the oak tree shade
Into Fairyland he has somehow strayed.
Then the fairy band started playing anew
And the fairy folk started dancing too
Round and round the dance floor they did wheel
To the haunting sound of a fairy reel.
I have never seen people quite so gay
As these little fairies in their bright array
These happy folk did laugh and sing
As they danced around in a fairy ring.
Then I left the ball with the Fairy Queen
And we strolled the banks of a moonlit stream
I stooped to kiss her but she was gone
And by the moonlit stream I stood alone.
The alarm clock rang and I awoke
And my spell of fantasy was broke
I awoke to a World of reality
From a Fairyland of fantasy.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Speeding Of The King's Spite
A king--estranged from his loving Queen
By a foolish royal whim--
Tired and sick of the dull routine
Of matters surrounding him--
Issued a mandate in this wise.--
'THE DOWER OF MY DAUGHTER'S HAND
I WILL GIVE TO HIM WHO HOLDS THIS PRIZE,
THE STRANGEST THING IN THE LAND.'
But the King, sad sooth! in this grim decree
Had a motive low and mean;--
'Twas a royal piece of chicanery
To harry and spite the Queen;
For King though he was, and beyond compare,
He had ruled all things save one--
Then blamed the Queen that his only heir
Was a daughter--not a son.
The girl had grown, in the mother's care,
Like a bud in the shine and shower
That drinks of the wine of the balmy air
Till it blooms into matchless flower;
Her waist was the rose's stem that bore
The flower--and the flower's perfume--
That ripens on till it bulges o'er
With its wealth of bud and bloom.
And she had a lover--lowly sprung,--
But a purer, nobler heart
Never spake in a courtlier tongue
Or wooed with a dearer art:
And the fair pair paled at the King's decree;
But the smiling Fates contrived
To have them wed, in a secrecy
That the Queen HERSELF connived--
While the grim King's heralds scoured the land
And the countries roundabout,
Shouting aloud, at the King's command,
A challenge to knave or lout,
Prince or peasant,--'The mighty King
Would have ye understand
That he who shows him the strangest thing
Shall have his daughter's hand!'
And thousands flocked to the royal throne,
Bringing a thousand things
Strange and curious;--One, a bone--
The hinge of a fairy's wings;
And one, the glass of a mermaid queen,
Gemmed with a diamond dew,
Where, down in its reflex, dimly seen,
Her face smiled out at you.
One brought a cluster of some strange date,
With a subtle and searching tang
That seemed, as you tasted, to penetrate
The heart like a serpent's fang;
And back you fell for a spell entranced,
As cold as a corpse of stone,
And heard your brains, as they laughed and danced
And talked in an undertone.
One brought a bird that could whistle a tune
So piercingly pure and sweet,
That tears would fall from the eyes of the moon
In dewdrops at its feet;
And the winds would sigh at the sweet refrain,
Till they swooned in an ecstacy,
To waken again in a hurricane
Of riot and jubilee.
One brought a lute that was wrought of a shell
Luminous as the shine
Of a new-born star in a dewy dell,--
And its strings were strands of wine
That sprayed at the Fancy's touch and fused,
As your listening spirit leant
Drunken through with the airs that oozed
From the o'ersweet instrument.
One brought a tablet of ivory
Whereon no thing was writ,--
But, at night--and the dazzled eyes would see
Flickering lines o'er it,--
And each, as you read from the magic tome,
Lightened and died in flame,
And the memory held but a golden poem
Too beautiful to name.
Till it seemed all marvels that ever were known
Or dreamed of under the sun
Were brought and displayed at the royal throne,
And put by, one by one
Till a graybeard monster came to the King--
Haggard and wrinkled and old--
And spread to his gaze this wondrous thing,--
A gossamer veil of gold.--
Strangely marvelous--mocking the gaze
Like a tangle of bright sunshine,
Dipping a million glittering rays
In a baptism divine:
And a maiden, sheened in this gauze attire--
Sifting a glance of her eye--
Dazzled men's souls with a fierce desire
To kiss and caress her and--die.
And the grim King swore by his royal beard
That the veil had won the prize,
While the gray old monster blinked and leered
With his lashless, red-rimmed eyes,
As the fainting form of the princess fell,
And the mother's heart went wild,
Throbbing and swelling a muffled knell
For the dead hopes of her child.
But her clouded face with a faint smile shone,
As suddenly, through the throng,
Pushing his way to the royal throne,
A fair youth strode along,
While a strange smile hovered about his eyes,
As he said to the grim old King:--
'The veil of gold must lose the prize;
For _I_ have a stranger thing.'
He bent and whispered a sentence brief;
But the monarch shook his head,
With a look expressive of unbelief--
'It can't be so,' he said;
'Or give me proof; and I, the King,
Give you my daughter's hand,--
For certes THAT IS a stranger thing--
THE STRANGEST THING IN THE LAND!'
Then the fair youth, turning, caught the Queen
In a rapturous caress,
While his lithe form towered in lordly mien,
As he said in a brief address:--
'My fair bride's mother is this; and, lo,
As you stare in your royal awe,
By this pure kiss do I proudly show
A LOVE FOR A MOTHER-IN-LAW!'
Then a thaw set in the old King's mood,
And a sweet Spring freshet came
Into his eyes, and his heart renewed
Its love for the favored dame:
But often he has been heard to declare
That 'he never could clearly see
How, in the deuce, such a strange affair
Could have ended so happily!'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Outlaw
O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen:
And as I rode by Dalton Hall,
Beneath the turrets high,
A Maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily:—
'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green!
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen.'
'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down:
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,
Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed
As blithe as Queen of May.'
Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green!
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen.
'I read you by your bugle horn
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a Ranger sworn
To keep the King's green-wood.'
'A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night.'
Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay!
I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!
'With burnish'd brand and musketoon
So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold Dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum.'
'I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
'And O! though Brignall banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
Would reign my Queen of May!
'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death I'll die;
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
Were better mate than I!
And when I'm with my comrades met
Beneath the green-wood bough,
What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.'
Chorus
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather flowers there
Would grace a summer queen.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Brignall Banks
O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen:
And as I rode by Dalton Hall,
Beneath the turrets high,
A Maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily:—
'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green!
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen.'
'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down:
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,
Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed
As blithe as Queen of May.'
Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green!
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen.
'I read you by your bugle horn
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a Ranger sworn
To keep the King's green-wood.'
'A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night.'
Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay!
I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!
'With burnish'd brand and musketoon
So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold Dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum.'
'I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
'And O! though Brignall banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
Would reign my Queen of May!
'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death I'll die;
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
Were better mate than I!
And when I'm with my comrades met
Beneath the green-wood bough,
What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.'
Chorus.
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather flowers there
Would grace a summer queen.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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A New National Anthem
I.
God prosper, speed,and save,
God raise from England’s grave
Her murdered Queen!
Pave with swift victory
The steps of Liberty,
Whom Britons own to be
Immortal Queen.
II.
See, she comes throned on high,
On swift Eternity!
God save the Queen!
Millions on millions wait,
Firm, rapid, and elate,
On her majestic state!
God save the Queen!
III.
She is Thine own pure soul
Moulding the mighty whole,--
God save the Queen!
She is Thine own deep love
Rained down from Heaven above,--
Wherever she rest or move,
God save our Queen!
IV.
‘Wilder her enemies
In their own dark disguise,--
God save our Queen!
All earthly things that dare
Her sacred name to bear,
Strip them, as kings are, bare;
God save the Queen!
V.
Be her eternal throne
Built in our hearts alone--
God save the Queen!
Let the oppressor hold
Canopied seats of gold;
She sits enthroned of old
O’er our hearts Queen.
VI.
Lips touched by seraphim
Breathe out the choral hymn
‘God save the Queen!’
Sweet as if angels sang,
Loud as that trumpet’s clang
Wakening the world’s dead gang,--
God save the Queen!
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Late Loved--Well Loved
He stood beside her in the dawn
(And she his Dawn and she his Spring),
From her bright palm she fed her fawn,
Her swift eyes chased the swallow's wing:
Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast
Shrill silver calls to hound and dove:
Her young locks wove them with the blast.
To the flush'd, azure shrine above,
The light boughs o'er her golden head
Toss'd em'rald arm and blossom palm.
The perfume of their prayer was spread
On the sweet wind in breath of balm.
'Dawn of my heart,' he said, 'O child,
Knit thy pure eyes a space with mine:
O chrystal, child eyes, undefiled,
Let fair love leap from mine to thine!'
'The Dawn is young,' she smiled and said,
'Too young for Love's dear joy and woe;
Too young to crown her careless head
With his ripe roses. Let me go--
Unquestion'd for a longer space,
Perchance, when day is at the flood,
In thy true palm I'll gladly place
Love's flower in its rounding bud.
But now the day is all too young,
The Dawn and I are playmates still.'
She slipped the blossomed boughs among,
He strode beyond the violet hill.
Again they stand (Imperial noon
Lays her red sceptre on the earth),
Where golden hangings make a gloom,
And far off lutes sing dreamy mirth.
The peacocks cry to lily cloud,
From the white gloss of balustrade:
Tall urns of gold the gloom make proud,
Tall statues whitely strike the shade,
And pulse in the dim quivering light
Until, most Galatea-wise--
Each looks from base of malachite
With mystic life in limbs and eyes.
Her robe, (a golden wave that rose,
And burst, and clung as water clings
To her long curves) about her flows.
Each jewel on her white breast sings
Its silent song of sun and fire.
No wheeling swallows smite the skies
And upward draw the faint desire,
Weaving its myst'ry in her eyes.
In the white kisses of the tips
Of her long fingers lies a rose,
Snow-pale beside her curving lips,
Red by her snowy breast it glows.
'Noon of my soul,' he says, 'behold!
The day is ripe, the rose full blown,
Love stands in panoply of gold,
To Jovian height and strength now grown,
No infant he, a king he stands,
And pleads with thee for love again.'
'Ah, yes!' she says, 'in known lands,
He kings it--lord of subtlest pain;
The moon is full, the rose is fair--
Too fair! 'tis neither white nor red:
'I know the rose that love should wear,
Must redden as the heart had bled!
The moon is mellow bright, and I
Am happy in its perfect glow.
The slanting sun the rose may dye--
But for the sweet noon--let me go.'
She parted--shimm'ring thro' the shade,
Bent the fair splendour of her head:
'Would the rich noon were past,' he said,
Would the pale rose were flush'd to red!'
Again. The noon is past and night
Binds on his brow the blood red Mars--
Down dusky vineyards dies the fight,
And blazing hamlets slay the stars.
Shriek the shrill shells: the heated throats
Of thunderous cannon burst--and high
Scales the fierce joy of bugle notes:
The flame-dimm'd splendours of the sky.
He, dying, lies beside his blade:
Clear smiling as a warrior blest
With victory smiles, thro' sinister shade
Gleams the White Cross upon her breast.
'Soul of my soul, or is it night
Or is it dawn or is it day?
I see no more nor dark nor light,
I hear no more the distant fray.'
''Tis Dawn,' she whispers: 'Dawn at last!
Bright flush'd with love's immortal glow
For me as thee, all earth is past!
Late loved--well loved, now let us go!'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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