Sometimes she counts the brightening twilight stars, The daisies smiling in the meadow grass, The slow kine trailing through the pasture bars, The white sheep loitering in the mountain pass.
But evermore her hands are cool and calm— Her quiet voice is ever hushed and low; And evermore her tranquil lips breathe balm, And silent as a dream her garments flow.
She comes, she goes—whence, whither—who can tell? Angels of God, do ye her secret keep? Know ye the talisman, the sign, the spell, The mystic password of my Lady Sleep?
THE KING’S TOUCH
“The King’s touch—there is magic in it! When the early dawn in the east is red, And I hear the song of the lark and linnet, I will rise like a wraith from my sleepless bed.
Then wrapped in a cloak of hodden gray I will steal like a shadow over the hills, And down where the pendulous willows sway, And the rich, ripe grape its scent distils—
Till I reach the edge of the forest wide; And there will I bide, where the still shades are, Till the King and his huntsmen forth do ride, And the sweet wild horn rings out afar.
I will wait and listen until I see The nodding plumes of the merry men And the glancing pennants floating free, A gleam of light in the lonely glen.
Then low in the dust at his royal feet I will kneel for the touch of his healing hand; Perchance he will give ere I entreat, Before I cry he may understand!
The King’s proud Leech will be there I trow— A wise old man with a reverent air— And the laughing courtiers, row on row; Yet not unto them will I make my prayer.