Then reaches out her hands again
To take it—but with moaning sound,
Like one distraught with sudden pain,
Falls pale and fainting to the ground.
"She has no children," Erick said,
As pleading for the strange mischance;
"This only grief since we were wed
Has saddened sore her life, perchance."
"She has no children!" murmured low
The happy mothers, gathered near;
"No child to love her—bitter woe;
No child to kiss her on her bier!"
But graver matrons shook the head:
"That witchlike beauty bodes no good;
Witch hands can never hold, 'tis said,
A child just blessed by holy rood."
They raised her up; she spake no word,
But slowly drooped her tearful eyes;
The rushing wave was all she heard,
The whirling wheels, the infants' cries.
And Erick said, with bitter smile:
"You play the mother all too ill;
Madonnas do not suit your style."
Her thoughts were by the lonely mill.
They set her on her palfrey white;
She heeds not all their taunting sneers,
But showers down her veil of light,
To hide the conscious, guilty tears.
They rode through all his vast estate
But rode in silence—he behind,
Sore pondering on his childless fate,
With ruffled brow and moody mind.
They rode through shadowy forest glades,
By meadows filled with lowing kine,
By streams that ran like silver threads
Down from the dark-fringed hills of pine.