And on the daisies patted,

As, querulous with sense of loss,

It tore the herbage matted.

"And come he early, come he late,"

She saith, "it will undo me;

The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate

Already quivers through me.

"When I beheld his red-roan steed,

I knew what aim impelled it.

And that dim scarf of silver brede,