Tall oaks, nor frost in his breath to sting:

Yet it is but a breath as of winter,

And it is not the hand of spring.

328 V

328

Thirty-one pale maidens, clad

All in mourning dresses,

Pass, with lips and eyes more sad

That it seems they should be glad,

Heads discrowned of crowns they had,

Grey for golden tresses.

Grey their girdles too for green,

And their veils dishevelled:

None would say, to see their mien,

That the least of these had been

Born no baser than a queen,

Reared where flower-fays revelled.

Dreams that strive to seem awake,

Ghosts that walk by daytime,

Weary winds the way they take,

 Prev. P 9/50 next