  "And her chief charm was bashfulness of face." There lay the others: some whose names were writ In dust—and, lo! the worm hath scattered it. There lay the others: some whose names were cut Deep in the stone below which Death is shut. The plumÈd courtier, with his wit and grace, So flattered one that scarce she knew her face! And the sad after-poet (dreaming through The shadow of the world, as poets do) Stops, like an angel that has lost his wings, And leans against the tomb of one and sings The old, old song (we hear it with a smile) From towers of Ilium and from vales of Nile. But she, the loveliest of them all, lies deep, With just a rude rhyme over her fair sleep. (Why is the abbey dark about her prest? Her grave should wear a daisy on its breast. Nor could an age of minster music be Worth half a skylark's hymn for such as she.) With one rude rhyme, I said; but that can hold The sweetest story that was ever told. For, though, if my Lord Christ account it meet For us to wash, sometimes, a pilgrim's feet, Or slip from purple raiment and sit low In sackcloth for a while, I do not know; Yet this I know: when sweet Queen Maud lay down, With her bright head shorn of its charm of crown (A hollow charm at best, aye, and a brief— She left a charm that shall outwear, indeed, All years and tears—in this one rhyme I read. Sarah M. B. Piatt. |
|
