That cost the maiden her Norman name,
And under the folds that look so still,
The bodice swelled with the bosom’s thrill!
Should I be I, or would it be
One tenth another, to nine tenths me?
Soft is the breath of a maiden’s yes,
Not the light gossamer stirs with less;
But never a cable that holds so fast
Through all the battles of wave and blast,
And never an echo of speech or song