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(From ‘The Prince’s Progress’)
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 | 5 |
| Died without a mate; | |
| The enchanted princess in her tower | |
| Slept, died, behind the grate; | |
| Her heart was starving all this while | |
| You made it wait. | 10 |
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| 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 | 15 |
| Which now you cannot know: | |
| The frozen fountain would have leaped, | |
| The buds gone on to blow, | |
| The warm south wind would have awaked | |
| To melt the snow. | 20 |
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| 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, | 25 |
| White poppies she must wear; | |
| Must wear a veil to shroud her face | |
| And the want graven there: | |
| Or is the hunger fed at length, | |
| Cast off the care? | 30 |
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| 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, | 35 |
| Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; | |
| We think her white brows often ached | |
| Beneath her crown, | |
| Till silvery hairs showed in her locks | |
| That used to be so brown. | 40 |
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| 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 | 45 |
| And concourse of the street. | |
| 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. | 50 |
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| 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, | 55 |
| But crown her royal head. | |
| Let be these poppies that we strew, | |
| Your roses are too red: | |
| Let be these poppies, not for you | |
| Cut down and spread. | 60 |
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