THOU see'st yon woman with the grave pelisse Lined with dark sables? Is she not devout? Her soul is in the service, and her eyes Are dim with weeping, -- weeping for the follies Of a misguided youth; thus saith the world, But I, who know her ladyship, know this: She weeps that youth itself, and the lost triumphs Which followed in its train; the scores of lovers Dead now, or married off; the rout, the joust, The sweet flirtations, merry carnivals, And -- (oh! supremest memory of all!) -- The banded serenaders'neath the lattice, Lifting the voice of passion in the night: And one among the minstrels loved her well, But him she laughed to scorn, his heart was riven; She trampled on the purest pearl of love, And cast it to the dogs; well, God is just! She scorned his sacred gift, and so must walk, Henceforth a lonely woman on the earth! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |