A LADY sat in her carven chair; The firelight lit her braided hair, Showed her gown of antique grace And dainty collar of Flanders lace: Showed her features wan and fair And the lines that life had chiselled there: Showed her slender finger tips And the baffling smile upon her lips. Within the fire she seemed to trace Ghosts of all that once took place, Phantoms in procession glow, Phantoms from the long ago, That paled her cheek, and lined her brow, And left her sitting lonely now With a strangely pensive air All alone in her carven chair. Should I discover her heart, 'twere sin, And hardly the lady dare look therein; Something I see mysterious, dark— (Is it costly shrine, or curious ark?) Wrapped about with flame and cloud, (Is it a vail, or is it a shroud?) Shapes of darkness, powers of night Strive for it, and forms of light. O Mary Mother! to love so well, Is it Heaven, or is it Hell? For full of fate as death is love, That coming softly like a dove Upon his prey yet swoops and springs With eagle beak and eagle wings, Tears the heart o' the victim out, Bears it hither, thither, about; Stabs it, tries it every way, And if aught therein be clay, Hurls it down from fearful height, Down, down, down to dawnless night. So she sits with her bleachéd hair, And chiselled features wan and fair, Thinking on the spectres ghast Phantoms from a far-off past; Sits with a strange fantastic air All alone in her carven chair, Her head propped on her finger tips, And a baffling smile upon her lips. |