I dig a grave from year to year.
God wot it needs be wide and deep,
For hopes that mock the chance of fear,
For dreams beyond the sport of sleep!
WHEN MY LOST LADY COMES AGAIN
WHEN my Lost Lady comes again
With the glory of Old France,
Her sweet form will speak to me
Of the dames of dead romance.
Ninon, Diane, whence died a king,
In tourney, not in battle’s jar;
Marguerite the Valois’ pride,
Royal comrade of Navarre.
De Fontanges, De Montespan,
Ripe rose beauties such as these,
Lily too of Fleur-de-Lys,
Sad, frail, angel-eyed Louise.
All De Sabran’s swift allures,
All Du Barry’s silken wiles,
Sunlight of the Pompadour’s
When the Court said, “Lo, she smiles!”
I will kiss their gracious hands,
Kissing hers—for she will deign
To my homage, when, ah when,
My Lost Lady comes again!
WHITE ROSES
WHITE roses, white roses,
In Holyrood’s Hall,
On dainty, white bosoms,
The whitest of all.
White roses at Derby,
Ah! withered long since
In the bonnets of laddies
Who fought for the Prince.