Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/163

 The page has caught her hand in his: Her lips are sever'd as to speak: His own are pouted to a kiss: The blush is fix'd upon her cheek.

Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps, Grave faces gather'd in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps. He must have been a jolly king.

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance like a little wood; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, misletoes, And grapes with bunches red as blood; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, bur and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen, High up, the topmost palace-spire.