A gray sad land, where her girlhood grew To womanhood proud, that the hill-winds seemed To give their moods, like melody, to; And the stars, their thoughts, like dreams love dreamed-- The only glad thing that the sad land knew. My Lady, you know, how nobly born! Greatly born, with a head that rose Like a dream of empire; love and scorn Made haunts of her eyes; and her lips--twin bows Of bloom, where wit was a pleasant thorn. And I--oh, I was nobody: one Her worshiper merely; who chose to be Silent, seeing that love alone Was his only badge of nobility, Set in his heart's escutcheon. How long ago does the springtime look, When we wandered away to the hills! the hills,-- Like the land in the tale in the Fairy-book,-- Gold with the gold of the daffodils, And gemmed with the crocus by bank and brook! When I gathered a branch from a hawthorn tree, For her hair or bosom, from boughs that hung Odorous of Heaven and purity; She thanked me smiling; then merrily sung This song while she laughingly looked at me:-- "_There dwelt a princess over the sea-- Oh fair was she, right fair was she-- Who loved a squire of low degree, Of low degree, But wedded a king of Brittany-- Ah, woe is me! is me!_ "_And it came to pass on the wedding day-- So people say, I have heard say-- That they found her dead in her bridal array, Her bridal array, And dead her lover beside her lay-- Ah, well-away! away!_ "A sour stave for your sweets," she said, Pressing the blossoms against her lips: Then petal by petal the branch she shred, Snowing the blooms from her finger-tips, Tossing them down for her feet to tread. What to her was the look I gave Of love despised!--Though she seemed to start, Seeing; and said, with a quick hand-wave, "Why, one would think that _that_ was your heart," While her face with a sudden thought grew grave. But I answered nothing. And so to her home We came in the eve; slow-falling, clear With a few first stars and a crescent of foam, The twilight dusked; and we heard from the mere The distant boom of a bittern come. Would you think that she loved me?--Who could say?-- What a riddle unread was she to me!-- When I kissed her fingers and turned away I wanted to speak, but--what cared she, Though her eyes looked soft and she bade me stay! Though she lingered to watch me--That might be A slim moonbeam or a shred of haze,-- But never my Lady's drapery Or wistful face!--in the woodbine maze. Valora of Verne--why, what cared she! * * * * *