212
Guendolen.
The clouds drift whiter, the flagging wind
Lies down in the brake like a wearied hind.
She hears the rain-drops gliding soft
To the leaf below from the leaf aloft;
She hears the breeze in its distant flight
Skimming over the marshy river,
And from the wood to the open night
Starts with a keen electric shiver.
Over the postern a loophole bright
Searches the dark with a lurid glare,
Ursula there with lamp alight
Sayeth her matin prayer.
What tempted her hither? What o'erstrained chord,
Struck in her heart by an elvish fear,
Knelled the voice of her absent lord
Into her wakeful ear?
Lies down in the brake like a wearied hind.
She hears the rain-drops gliding soft
To the leaf below from the leaf aloft;
She hears the breeze in its distant flight
Skimming over the marshy river,
And from the wood to the open night
Starts with a keen electric shiver.
Over the postern a loophole bright
Searches the dark with a lurid glare,
Ursula there with lamp alight
Sayeth her matin prayer.
What tempted her hither? What o'erstrained chord,
Struck in her heart by an elvish fear,
Knelled the voice of her absent lord
Into her wakeful ear?
It is the wind that round her lingers,
Plucking her back with its chilly fingers;
'Tis only a brook that yonder passes,
Stifling its sobs in the limp marsh grasses;
Those are pines in their funeral vesture,
Waving her on with a solemn gesture!
Plucking her back with its chilly fingers;
'Tis only a brook that yonder passes,
Stifling its sobs in the limp marsh grasses;
Those are pines in their funeral vesture,
Waving her on with a solemn gesture!
