Page:Poems, Volume 2, Coates, 1916.djvu/99

Rh O poor, my Mother! Soon, they say,

She hid herself with her child away,

And looked no longer on the day.

But sometimes, when our towers were white,—

Bathed in the moon's celestial light,—

Her casement opened on the night

All tremulous with mystery,

And, motionless, without a sigh,

She stood there, gazing on the sky;

And they who saw her then, declare

There was nor pride nor passion there,—

Only a tearless, mute despair.

I knew her not,—or if I knew,

Forgot her quickly, as children do,—

Alas! as little children do.

But when she died, men say that I

So plaintive wailed in the chamber nigh,

That summoned thither by the cry,

They brought my brother! In that hour,

He bore me to this lonely tower—

This fortress of our ancient power,