 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
118
The Lille Bust
Was it Cæcilia or Felicula,
Matron or maid, who wore this purity
Of loveliness so fair it could not die
Even with her death, but dwelt in the chill clay
That might not fall to dust, nor know decay,
Till years rolled into many a century,
And peasants, delving where dead Romans lie,
Found her, and worshipped, by the Appian Way?
Matron or maid, who wore this purity
Of loveliness so fair it could not die
Even with her death, but dwelt in the chill clay
That might not fall to dust, nor know decay,
Till years rolled into many a century,
And peasants, delving where dead Romans lie,
Found her, and worshipped, by the Appian Way?
Then men, beholding her sweet face, forgot
The Saints, forgot their living loves, and pined
For this cold heart that might not throb nor feel.
So the priests hid her in a secret spot;
But one who bore her beauty in his mind,
Made it twice deathless in the bust of Lille!
The Saints, forgot their living loves, and pined
For this cold heart that might not throb nor feel.
So the priests hid her in a secret spot;
But one who bore her beauty in his mind,
Made it twice deathless in the bust of Lille!
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |