| |
| WHAT memory fired her pallid face, | |
| What passion stirred her blood, | |
| What tide of sorrow and desire | |
| Poured its forgotten flood | |
| Upon a heart that ceased to beat, | 5 |
| Long since, with thought that life was sweet, | |
| When nights were rich with vernal dusk, | |
| And the rose burst its bud? | |
| |
| Had not the western glory then | |
| Stolen through the latticed room, | 10 |
| Her funeral raiment would have shed | |
| A more heart-breaking gloom; | |
| Had not a dimpled convent-maid | |
| Hung in the doorway, half afraid, | |
| And left the melancholy place | 15 |
| Bright with her blush and bloom! | |
| |
| Beside the gilded harp she stood, | |
| And through the singing strings | |
| Wound those wan hands of folded prayer | |
| In murmurous preludings. | 20 |
| Then, like a voice, the harp rang high | |
| Its melody, as climb the sky, | |
| Melting against the melting blue, | |
| Some bird’s vibrating wings. | |
| |
| Ah, why, of all the songs that grow | 25 |
| Forever tenderer, | |
| Chose she that passionate refrain | |
| Where lovers ’mid the stir | |
| Of wassailers that round them pass | |
| Hide their sweet secret? Now, alas, | 30 |
| In her nun’s habit, coifed and veiled, | |
| What meant that song to her! | |
| |
| Slowly the western ray forsook | |
| The statue in its shrine; | |
| A sense of tears thrilled all the air | 35 |
| Along the purpling line. | |
| Earth seemed a place of graves that rang | |
| To hollow footsteps, while she sang, | |
| “Drink to me only with thine eyes, | |
| And I will pledge with mine!” | 40 |
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