He weaved that whisper of the twilight sky
Into a poem, soft with melody,
It thrilled the soul in motion strong and free,
Wild as the wave, a break of ecstasy.

It kissed the borderland 'twixt heaven and earth,
Sweet in its passion, holy in its mirth--
And lo! a light gleamed through each noble line,
The wind crooned softly, starways seemed to shine--
That poem--was divine.

Queen Elizabeth

She would dance a Coranto, that the French Ambassador, hidden behind
a curtain, might report her sprightliness to his master.--GREENE.

So Elizabeth danced
And the guest was entranced
As she tripped the Coranto, and curtseyed and swayed
In a robe of rich stuff,
Jewelled slashings and ruff,
And a stomacher stiff, thick with pearlings and braid.
Ho! he peeped round the curtain,
'Tis perfectly certain
Enraptured of mien
At the tiptoeing Queen,
In a courtly way, in a Frenchy way,
In a naughty way, in that Tudor day.

Yes, he peeped round the screen,
And he sniggered ("I ween,
This is only a woman to flatter and kiss,
A creature of vanity")--"Madam, what bliss
To have witnessed such grace, such elegant----" here
He could find no more words, and emotion 'twas clear
Choked all further utterance,
For never had such a dance
Entered his thought.
Such slippers! and ought
He to mention the hose?
All of silk to suppose?
Had the muse from Olympus stepped down for a while
Terpsichore style?
Then quite without guile
He bowed very low in his Frenchified way,
In that courtly way, of a far-off day,
And the laugh of the lady was merry and gay.

And all throughout Europe the fame of her spread,
Her frivolous tricks, and the foreigners said
It was only a princess, a slave to her pride,
True child of a mother a king had decried!--
So she thwarted and twisted the world to her whim
As he misunderstood her--she outwitted him!

Now one day it arose that King Philip of Spain,
Incensed at her folly, essayed yet again
To bring her to reason
Just at his own season.
So he sent his Ambassador, Spanish Mendoza,
To this slippery Queen, with a message sub rosa.

"Nay, by mine honour," she simpered. "How now,
Is it truce to my jest? 'Tis a pity I