Of the soul, as sadly fair,
When our wild emotions are at rest,
Like the pale nuns at prayer;
And our griefs are hushed like sleepers,
And put off the robes of care.



THE SEWING-GIRL.


I asked to see the dead man's face,
As I gave the servant my well-filled basket;
And she deigned to lead me, a wondrous grace,
Where he lay asleep in his rosewood casket.
I was only the sewing-girl, and he the heir to this
princely palace.
Flowers, white flowers, everywhere,
In odorous cross, and anchor, and chalice.
The smallest leaf might touch his hair;
But I--my God! I must stand apart,
With my hands pressed silently on my heart,
I must not touch the least brown curl;
For I was only the sewing-girl.

If his stately mother knew what I know,
As she weeping stood by his side this morning,
Would she clasp me in motherly love and woe--
Or drive me out in the cold with scorning?
If she knew that I loved him better than life,