Did she complain unto the stars above,
All the lone night, of that forbidden love?
Or down the rush-strewn stairs, where arras old
Waved with her mantled passage, fold on fold,
Beyond the tower's iron-studded gate,
That snarled with rust, did she steal forth and wait
Deep in the dingled lavender and rose
For him, her troubadour?... Who knows? who knows?