His slackening steps pause at the gate-- Does she wake or sleep?--the time is late-- Does she sleep now, or watch and wait? She has watched, she has waited long, Watching athwart the golden grate With a patient song. Fling the golden portals wide, The Bridegroom comes to his promised Bride; Draw the gold-stiff curtains aside, Let them look on each other's face, 460 She in her meekness, he in his pride-- Day wears apace. Day is over, the day that wore. What is this that comes through the door, The face covered, the feet before? This that coming takes his breath; The Bride not seen, to be seen no more Save of Bridegroom Death? Veiled figures carrying her Sweep by yet make no stir; 470 There is a smell of spice and myrrh, A bride-chant burdened with one name; The bride-song rises steadier Than the torches' flame: 'Too late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late! You loitered on the road too long, You trifled at the gate: The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate; 480 The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate; Her heart was starving all this while You made it wait. 'Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow; Then you had known her living face Which now you cannot know: 490 The frozen fountain would have leaped, The buds gone on to blow, The warm south wind would have awaked To melt the snow. 'Is she fair now as she lies? Once she was fair; Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair. Now these are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear; 500 Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care? 'We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seemed never soft to her, Though tossed of down; She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; 510 We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs showed in her locks That used to be so brown. 'We never heard her speak in haste; Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much As it was meet: Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street. 520 There was no hurry in her hands, No hurry in her feet; There was no bliss drew nigh to her, That she might run to greet. 'You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep to-day That she is dead? Lo, we who love weep not to-day, But crown her royal head. 530 Let be these poppies that we strew, Your roses are too red: Let be these poppies, not for you Cut down and spread.' MAIDEN-SONG