THE YOUNG PRINCESS

When the South sang like a nightingale Above a bower in May, The training of Love's vine of flame Was writ in laws, for lord and dame To say their yea and nay.

When the South sang like a nightingale Across the flowering night, And lord and dame held gentle sport, There came a young princess to Court, A frost of beauty white.

The South sang like a nightingale To thaw her glittering dream: No vine of Love her bosom gave, She drank no wine of Love, but grave She held them to Love's theme.

The South grew all a nightingale Beneath a moon unmoved: Like the banner of war she led them on; She left them to lie, like the light that has gone From wine-cups overproved.

When the South was a fervid nightingale, And she a chilling moon, 'Twas pity to see on the garden swards, Against Love's laws, those rival lords As willow-wands lie strewn.

The South had throat of a nightingale For her, the young princess: She gave no vine of Love to rear, Love's wine drank not, yet bent her ear To themes of Love no less.