Were eager messengers of her surprise
That she was quit of her profound despair.
Clothed was she like a nun, and yet her vesture
Did sad despite unto her merry grace,
As gaily she came forward with a gesture
As gamesome as the childhood in her face,
That I had seen so long downcast and sad,
Robbed of the happy birthright which she had,
Which earth may steal away but not replace.
There is no sorrow like the slow heart-searing,