My lord was pale with inward strife, And Nell was pale with pride; My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare Or ever he kissed the bride.
"Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord, Have brought my gift," she said: "To bless the hearth, to bless the board, To bless the marriage-bed.
"Here's my half of the golden chain You wore about your neck, That day we waded ankle-deep For lilies in the beck:
"Here's my half of the faded leaves We plucked from budding bough, With feet amongst the lily-leaves,-- The lilies are budding now."
He strove to match her scorn with scorn, He faltered in his place: "Lady," he said,--"Maude Clare," he said,-- "Maude Clare":--and hid his face.
She turned to Nell: "My Lady Nell, I have a gift for you; Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone, Or, were it flowers, the dew.
"Take my share of a fickle heart, Mine of a paltry love: Take it or leave it as you will, I wash my hands thereof."
"And what you leave," said Nell, "I'll take, And what you spurn, I'll wear; For he's my lord for better and worse, And him I love, Maude Clare.
"Yea, though you're taller by the head, More wise, and much more fair; I'll love him till he loves me best, Me best of all, Maude Clare."
Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years.
O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimful of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death: Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago!
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I: Perhaps some day, who knows? But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows, And you're too curious: fie! You want to hear it? well: Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none: Suppose there is no secret after all, But only just my fun. To-day's a nipping day, a biting day; In which one wants a shawl, A veil, a cloak, and other wraps: I cannot ope to every one who taps, And let the draughts come whistling through my hall; Come bounding and surrounding me, Come buffeting, astounding me, Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all. I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows His nose to Russian snows To be pecked at by every wind that blows? You would not peck? I thank you for good-will, Believe, but leave that truth untested still.