V

Thirty-one pale maidens, clad All in mourning dresses, Pass, with lips and eyes more sad That it seems they should be glad, Heads discrowned of crowns they had, Grey for golden tresses.

Grey their girdles too for green, And their veils dishevelled: None would say, to see their mien, That the least of these had been Born no baser than a queen, Reared where flower-fays revelled.

Dreams that strive to seem awake, Ghosts that walk by daytime, Weary winds the way they take, Since, for one child's absent sake, May knows well, whate'er things make Sport, it is not Maytime.