Before she died, three weary days
She called in anguish on his name.
By twilight cool, or noonday blaze,
Her luckless lover never came.
And since men rarely mount the stones
That form the Tower's ruined stair,
It may be that her small, white bones
Still wait in lonely silence there.
Ah, when Love comes, his wings are swift,
His ways are full of quick surprise;
'Tis well for those who have the gift
To seize him even as he flies!
Printed by Ballantyne & Co. Limited
Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London
