THE RING.
105
And, pale as twilight's earliest dew,
Lost the bright ring its ruby hue.
There still may curious eye behold
The relic. But my tale is told.
"Now welcome, fair Marguerite, to thee,
Fair flower of Provence minstrelsy."
Came a lovely lady in place,
Like the twilight star in her pensive grace.
White daisies were wreathed in the dark brown shade
Of her tresses, parted in simple braid:
Her long eyelash was the shadow of night,
And the eye beneath was the morning bright;
For its colour was that of the diamond dew
Which hath caught from the glancing light its hue;
