For when betimes a holy pilgrim wanders
Near her retreat by night, a sweet, low sound
Holds him awhile. Certain it is the sound
Of pious hymns. And when the village children
Together in the oak-grove sport at eve,
Then from the window shines a streak of white,
As ’twere a sunbeam from the rising dawn.
Is it an amber ringlet of her hair,
Or lustre of her slender, snowy hand
Blessing those innocent heads? The chivalry