 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
AT REST.
With folded hands the lady lies
In flowing robes of white,
A lamp beside her lonely couch,
A globe of tender light.
In flowing robes of white,
A lamp beside her lonely couch,
A globe of tender light.
With such a light above her head,
A little year ago,
She walked adown the shadowy vale
Where the blood-red roses grow.
A little year ago,
She walked adown the shadowy vale
Where the blood-red roses grow.
A shape or shadow joined her there,
To pluck the royal flower,
But stole the lily from her breast,
Albeit her only dower.
To pluck the royal flower,
But stole the lily from her breast,
Albeit her only dower.
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With that all went, her false love first,
And then her peace of heart:
The hard world frowned, her friends grew cold,
She hid in tears apart:
And then her peace of heart:
The hard world frowned, her friends grew cold,
She hid in tears apart:
And now she lies upon her couch,
Amid the dying light,
Nor wakes to hear the little voice
That moans throughout the night!
Amid the dying light,
Nor wakes to hear the little voice
That moans throughout the night!
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |