The brown mantle.
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She hath been leaning o'er the saintly book
Her clasped hands rest upon, for one rich lock
Hath parted from the mass, across her brow
Pencilling its shadow. You would never guess
Her state from her arraying, at her throat
The sad-hued mantle with its falling hood
Close gathered. Best of all I love her eyes;
I'd have no change in them. I would not see
Even the angel presence of a smile
Troubling their darkness.
Was she good as fair?
How thinkest thou? are not her very looks
Teachers of purity? was she high-born?
Young, lovely, noble, did she give to God
The blossom of her nature? She hath dwelt
Where the Seine wanders. Canst thou image her
A peasant, loitering through the vintage fields,
Binding her brows with grape leaves; else, apart
Weaving fresh chaplets. For she hath been wont
To kneel at Romish altars, and I know
Under the brown folds of her cloak you'd find
Beads and a crucifix. Peasant or queen,
Her clasped hands rest upon, for one rich lock
Hath parted from the mass, across her brow
Pencilling its shadow. You would never guess
Her state from her arraying, at her throat
The sad-hued mantle with its falling hood
Close gathered. Best of all I love her eyes;
I'd have no change in them. I would not see
Even the angel presence of a smile
Troubling their darkness.
Was she good as fair?
How thinkest thou? are not her very looks
Teachers of purity? was she high-born?
Young, lovely, noble, did she give to God
The blossom of her nature? She hath dwelt
Where the Seine wanders. Canst thou image her
A peasant, loitering through the vintage fields,
Binding her brows with grape leaves; else, apart
Weaving fresh chaplets. For she hath been wont
To kneel at Romish altars, and I know
Under the brown folds of her cloak you'd find
Beads and a crucifix. Peasant or queen,
