Naught in your grace, save witchery?
Oh, yellow hair, so like the sun,
What is this sin that thou hast done
That men should have such hate of thee?
And sweet grave face of ivory,
So made for love and for desire,
Why should they crave thee for the fire?
Fire of love was meant for thee."
Her sister bent and kissed the hands
Which hung straight down like two white wands,