Had thrilled with dawn. A strand of golden thread
Slipped from her trembling fingers as she rose
And hastened to the castle with drooped head.
All morn she paced within her blinded room,
Unresting, to and fro, her white hands clenched;
All morn within her tearless eyes, unquenched,
Blue fires of anger smouldered, yet no moan
Escaped her lips. Without, in summer bloom,
The garden murmured with bliss-burdened drone
Of hover-flies and lily-charmed bees;