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From the evening-lighted wood,
From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood
Between the rainbow and the sun.
The very smile before you speak,
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth
Of dainty sorrow without sound,
Like the tender amber round,
Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night.
You love, remaining peacefully,
To hear the murmur of the strife,
But enter not the toil of life.
Your spirit is the calmed sea,
Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway
Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lull’d echoes of laborious day
Come to you, gleams of mellow light
What can it matter, Margaret,
What songs below the waning stars
The lion-heart, Plantagenet,
Sang looking thro' his prison bars ?
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell
Just ere the falling axe did part
Even in her sight he loved so well ?
A fairy shield your Genius made
And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade,
Come down, come down, and hear me speak:
The sun is just about to set,
And faint, rainy lights are seen,
Moving in the leavy beech.
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady,
Where all day long you sit between
Joy and woe, and whisper each Or only look across the lawn,
Look out below your bower-eaves,
Look down, and let your
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves.