ce leapt to flame;
What need were of words? heart speaks heart evermore--
(And I knew that were mine but the rapture to prove you,
How deeply, how dearly one woman might love you!)

II.

Do I idly dream, as the village maid,
Who thinks, as she spins, of a princekin gay
On a prancing steed, who shall come her way
To woo her and win her and bear her away
Thro' the vasty depths of the forest shade
To a palace set in a sylvan glade,--
To love her for aye and a day?

Is it like that he with his princely pride--
The son of a proud old race,
Shall stoop with Cophetua's kingly grace
To lift me up to the vacant place,
To reign like a queen at his side?
Can the world afford him no worthier bride--
No bride with a queenlier grace?

Aye, a foolish dream for a sordid day
When men seek power--and women, gold--
Gone is the chivalrous age of old
When maids were loving and men were bold,
And good King Arthur held knightly sway!
Ah, love and knighthood were laid away
With the cuirass and helm of old.

* * * * *

But a horseman rides to the wicket gate--
All my pulses proclaim it he,
My knight who has parted the waves of the sea,
Who has cleft the wide world in his searching for me....
Fond, foolish, dreaming!--for surely Fate
Decrees him the winning a worthier mate
Than a simple girl like me!

III.

Why does he come to me,
With his deep, impassioned eyes,
Stealing my soul from me?
Surely a high emprise
For such an one as he
To smile an hour on me--
To win a worthless prize,
Would he might let me be!
Proud am I--proud as he
For my name as his is old--
What should he say to me?
I have neither lands nor gold.
Ah, a merry jest 'twill be
To win my heart from me--
(The tale will be soon told!)
Would he might let me be!

IV.

Swept, swept away is my vaunted pride
On a flood-tide of tenderness;
I envy the dog that bounds to his side,
And the chestnut mare he is wont to ride
'Cross moor and mead when the day is fine,
As she lays her head in a mute caress
'Gainst the arm of _her_ lord--and _mine!_

V.

Ah, silver and gold of the glad June morning--
Gold of the sunshine and silver of dew,
Dew drop gems all the meads adorning--
Are love and the rose-time a theme for scorning?
Roses, roses,--dream not of rue!
Am I not loved by you?

Antiphonal to sweet sylvan singers,
The brook with its maddening, gladdening rune!
And my lover's kiss still thrills and lingers,
Lin