"Cecile! Cecile!"

And, wrapping her cloak round her withered form,
She crept down the stairs of crumbling stone;
Higher and fiercer raged the storm
As she bent and plucked the rose--but one
Had the tempest spared--and the winds did moan,
And she thought that she heard o'er the voice of the storm,
"Cecile! Cecile!"

She placed the rose on her bloodless breast,
And dizzy and faint she reached the tower,
And her strange eyes looked out again on the west,
And a wave dashed up, as she looked from the tower,
Like a hand, and lifted the roots of the flower,
And swept it--carried it out to the west,
From the Lady Cecile.

And like death was her face, when suddenly,
Strangely--a tremulous golden gleam
Pierced the pile of clouds, high-massed and gray,
And the shining, quivering, golden beam
Seemed a bridge of light--a gold highway
Thrown o'er the wild waves of the bay;
And the Lady Cecile

Did eagerly out of her lattice lean
With her glad eyes bent on that bridge gold-bright,
As if some form by her rapt eyes seen,
Were beckoning her down that path of light,