“Jest’st thou?” Dame Hubbard said, and clutched her crutch,
For ill she brooked light parlance of the dead;
But when she saw Sir Waldgrave, how his face
Was all drawn downward, till the curving mouth
Seemed a horseshoe, while o’er the furrowed cheek
A wandering tear stole on, like rivulet
In dry ravine down mother Ida’s side,
She changed her purpose, smote not, lowered the staff;—
So parted, faring homeward with her grief.
Nearing her bower, it seemed a sepulchre