 | A memoir by Hallam Tennyson (1897) |  |
197
Rosamund's Bower.
Rosamund loquitur.
What rustles hither in the dark?
A step? a footfall? What is that I hear?
The night is black and still; the deer
Bleat as with human voices in the park.
Is it the king? is it my love
Coming along the secret ways?
The man that round me wove
Inextricable brickwork maze in maze?
A step? a footfall? What is that I hear?
The night is black and still; the deer
Bleat as with human voices in the park.
Is it the king? is it my love
Coming along the secret ways?
The man that round me wove
Inextricable brickwork maze in maze?
It is not he; far off from England's shore,
He comes no more.
An idle hope was in my breast,
My hope is false, my terror's true!
I shudder in my lonely nest,
And think a cunning hand has found the clue—
God be gracious to my soul!
He comes no more.
An idle hope was in my breast,
My hope is false, my terror's true!
I shudder in my lonely nest,
And think a cunning hand has found the clue—
God be gracious to my soul!
| A memoir by Hallam Tennyson (1897) | |