A last look on the mirror, trust
My arms to each an arm of theirs,
And so descend the castle-stairs—
VI.
And come out on the morning-troop
Of merry friends who kissed my cheek,
And called me queen, and made me stoop
Under the canopy—(a streak
That pierced it, of the outside sun,
Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)—