1.

Vased in her bedroom window, white As her glad girlhood, never lost, I smelt the roses; and the night Outside was fog and frost.

What though I claimed her dying there! God nor one angel understood Nor cared, who from loved feet to hair Had changed to mist her blood.

Love, love had claimed us long, and long Our hearts sang harp-strung, late and soon; But God!—God jangles thus the song And makes discord of tune.

What lily lilier than her face! More virgin than her lips I kissed! When morn like God, with gold and grace Broke massed in mist! broke massed in mist!