Goes light among a myriad panes, with dust upon her head.
England of old most innocent, whose flower of skill achieved
Failed quick as Lammas lilies, when thy hand no more believed,
What hast thou here, beloved but dead, held to thy childless heart?
Alas, thy human all of heaven: thine own and only Art.
A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY SONG.
She alone of Shepherdesses
With her blue disdayning eyes,
Wo’d not hark a Kyng that dresses