Who kneels, one hand on her straining breast,

One hand on the dead man's bosom pressed?

Her face is dim as the dead's; and cold

As his tarnished harness of steel and gold.

O Lady Maurine! O Lady Maurine!

What boots it now that regret is keen?

That his hair you smooth? that you kiss his brow,

What boots it now? what boots it now?—

She has haled him under the trysting oak,