  A Fragment. In all the land was not a maid Could match her beauty white and red; No decent veil she need to wear, Deep-mantled in her royal hair, Dun ripples, shot all through and through With fiery gold; her eyes were blue And clearer than a Summer wave That murmurs in some sunless cave, And over them her brow shone white, Like the first low star that pricks the night, And under them her mouth did redden, Like ripe red clover, honey-laden; But white as pear-bloom was her chin, An elvish dimple played therein; Her breast stirred softly up and down Beneath the folding of her gown As if a bird were prisoned there That fluttered for the outer air, And round and comely was each limb, As doth a royal maid beseem. 1878. |
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