  I have drunken the red wine and flung the dice; Yet once in the noisy ale-house I have seen and heard The dear pale lady with the mournful eyes, And a voice like that of a pure grey cooing bird. With delicate white hands—white hands that I have kist (Oh frail white hands!)—she soothed my aching eyes; And her hair fell about her in a dim clinging mist, Like smoke from a golden incense burned in Paradise. With gentle loving words, like shredded balm and myrrh, She healed with sweet forgiveness my black bitter sins, Then passed into the night, and I go seeking her Down the dark, silent streets, past the warm, lighted inns. |
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