And gently waving as the breezes blew
Along the lea. One small hand held her lute,
The other rested on its strings all mute
As they had never breathed one thrilling song
Of fervent love, or anguish cherished long.
Her swollen eyes, dejected, had not wept,
Though her past life in one dark tissue swept
Before her now—“I would sing one song more—
One wild, undying strain, ere life be o’er;
And I would gather in this latest theme