The lion's cub :: :: University of Virginia Library

Who art thou, Lady of the East,
Whose day of eyes and night of hair
The daughter of a king, at least,
Proclaim, so brightly, darkly fair?
Thy life is a perpetual feast,
With but a single shadow there.

What is it, Lady? Some sweet thing
Which once was thine, but now is fled?
Thy lute hath lost its golden string?
Thy rose its freshest odor shed?
The bird thou lovest has taken wing,
And to another sings instead?

What is it, Princess, that hath cast
This sudden sadness on thy brow?
The shadow of what loving Past?
The memory of what broken vow?
Girlhood hath gone from thee at last,
And thou art perfect woman now.

I see thee as thou standest there
With those mysterious eyes of thine,
And all that midnight length of hair,
Like Dis's pall on Proserpine;

I only know that thou art fair,
I only wish that thou wert mine.

What Earth's first women were thou art,
Glorious and gracious to behold,
With greater steadfastness of heart,
Though cast in less heroic mould.
And yet with tears that sooner start,
And smiles that were not known of old.

Thou hast no need to wear a crown,
So royal in thyself art thou;
And whether Fortune smile, or frown,
Thou hast the same unruffled brow;
Content if only men bow down
And worship thee—as I do now.

I love thee, and will be to thee
All that all men have been, and more;
Love me, and thou shalt be to me
What never woman was before:
Be thou the shore, and I the sea,
And let the great Sea kiss the shore.