Page:Collected poems vol 2 de la mare.djvu/59


 * His lands are bleak and drear, O;
 * Forsook his dales
 * Of nightingales,
 * Forsook his moors of deer, O.

Forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth; There's nothing gladsome left on earth;
 * All thoughts and dreams seem vain, O,
 * Save where remote
 * The moonbeams gloat,
 * And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.

Until an even when lone he went, Gnawing his beard in dreariment —
 * Lo! from a thicket hidden,
 * Lovely as flower
 * In April hour,
 * Steps forth a form unbidden.

"Get ye now down, my lord, to me! I'm troubled so I'm like to dee,"
 * She cries, 'twixt joy and grief, O;
 * "The hound is dead,
 * When all is said,
 * But love is past belief, O.

"Nights, nights I've lain your lands to see, Forlorn and still — and all for me,
 * All for a foolish curse, O;
 * Now here am I