Silent he kneels beside his muted dove, His crispéd locks white as the new fall'n snow; And thrice he kiss'd the pale lips of his love, And thrice his hand caress'd the marble brow; Then drew his silken scarf her face above, And all around did lenten lilies strow. Now with hung head, and sad, unhasting feet, Homeward he turns his wistful wife to greet. |