You see them clear--the moon shines bright. Slow, slow and softly, where she stood, She sinks upon the ground; her hood Had fallen back, her arms outspread Still hold her lover’s hands; her head Is bowed, half-buried, on the bed. O’er the blanched sheet, her raven hair Lies in disordered streams; and there, Strung like white stars, the pearls still are; And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, Flash on her white arms still,-- The very same which yesternight Flashed in the silver sconces’ light, When the feast was gay and the laughter loud In Tyntagel’s palace proud. But then they decked a restless ghost With hot-flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes, And quivering lips on which the tide Of courtly speech abruptly died, And a glance which over the crowded floor, The dancers, and the festive host, Flew ever to the door; That the knights eyed her in surprise, And the dames whispered scoffingly,-- “Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers! But yesternight and she would be As pale and still as withered flowers; And now to-night she laughs and speaks, And has a color in her cheeks. Christ keep us from such fantasy!”-- Yes, now the longing is o’erpast, Which, dogged by fear and fought by shame. Shook her weak bosom day and night, Consumed her beauty like a flame, And dimmed it like the desert-blast. And though the curtains hide her face, Yet, were it lifted to the light, The sweet expression of her brow Would charm the gazer, till his thought Erased the ravages of time, Filled up the hollow cheek, and brought A freshness back as of her prime,-- So healing is her quiet now; So perfectly the lines express A tranquil, settled loveliness, Her younger rival’s purest grace.