What matter that his cheeks were pale,
His kind kiss'd lips all grey?
O, love Louise, have you waited long?
O, my lord Arthur, yea.
What if his hair that brush'd her cheek
Was stiff with frozen rime?
His eyes were grown quite blue again,
As in the happy time.
O, love Louise, this is the key
Of the happy golden land!
O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,
My eyes are full of sand.
What matter that I cannot see,
If ye take me by the hand?
And ever the great bell overhead,
And the tumbling seas mourned for the dead;
For their song ceased, and they were dead.
THE TUNE OF SEVEN TOWERS
NO one goes there now:
For what is left to fetch away
From the desolate battlements all arow,
And the lead roof heavy and grey?
Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,
This is the tune of Seven Towers.
No one walks there now;
Except in the white moonlight
The white ghosts walk in a row;
If one could see it, an awful sight,
Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,
This is the tune of Seven Towers.
But none can see them now,
Though they sit by the side of the moat,
Feet half in the water, there in a row,
Long hair in the wind afloat.
Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,
This is the tune of Seven Towers.