Through that world of plume and glove,
Could your precious little heart
Fix on anything to love?
—Sober, silent you remain,
Tiny, stately maid of Spain!
LEPAGE’S JOAN OF ARC
Once, it may be, the soft gray skies were dear,
The clouds above in crowds, like sheep below,
The bending of each kindly wrinkled tree;
Or blossoms at the birth-time of the year,