At noon when every dame had sought her bed, High in an oriel, peacock-plume in hand, And mapped beneath her all the varied land, Dreaming from out her dainty book she read, Till of a sudden, with a flame-girt head, The one she dream'd of, on light pinions fann'd Over the sill, did gently swoop and stand Beside her, quivering for her full mouth's red. And in his warm god's arms her cheeks so glow'd She hardly mark'd how, writ in rose and gold, Her own life's page was past, and hardly show'd. Then with a cry he vanish'd -- shivering cold The night wind swept the corridors; the bell Boom'd for one dead, down from the spired chapelle. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |