| |
| NOT her own sorrow only that hath place | |
| Upon yon gentle face. | |
| Too slight have been her childhood’s years to gain | |
| The imprint of such pain. | |
| It hid behind her laughing hours, and wrought | 5 |
| Each curve in saddest thought | |
| On brow and lips and eyes. With subtle art | |
| It made that little heart | |
| Through its young joyous beatings to prepare | |
| A quiet shelter there, | 10 |
| Where the immortal sorrows might find a home. | |
| And many there have come; | |
| Bowed in a mournful mist of golden hair | |
| Deirdre hath entered there. | |
| And shrouded in a fall of pitying dew, | 15 |
| Weeping the friend he slew, | |
| The Hound of Ulla lies, with those who shed | |
| Tears for the Wild Geese fled. | |
| And all the lovers on whom fate had warred | |
| Cutting the silver cord | 20 |
| Enter, and softly breath by breath they mould | |
| The young heart to the old, | |
| The old protest, the old pity, whose power | |
| Are gathering to the hour | |
| When their knit silence shall be mightier far | 25 |
| Than leagued empires are. | |
| And dreaming of the sorrow on this face | |
| We grow of lordlier race, | |
| Could shake the rooted rampart of the hills | |
| To shield her from all ills, | 30 |
| And through a deep adoring pity won | |
| Grow what we dream upon. | |
| |
