Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/267

Rh Thrice he hath danced with her. She is not one of us—her face is strange; Colored and carven to meet most men’s desire Is ’t not, my lord? Certes, it loses naught For lack of ornament. Pray, ask her name, If but for my sake.

I have already asked. She is the daughter to the Spagnoletto, Maria-Rosa.

Ah, I might have guessed. The form and face are matched with the apparel, As in a picture. T was the master s hand, I warrant you, arranged with such quaint art, Such seeming-careless care, the dead, white pearls Within her odd, bright hair. [They pass on. Now hope, now fear Reigned lord of my wild dreams. One name still sang Like the repeated strain of some caged bird, Its sweet, persistent music through my brain. One vanishing face upon the empty air Shone forth and faded night and day. And you,