John Greenleaf Whittier.
MY lady walks her morning round,
My ladys page her fleet greyhound,
My ladys hair the fond
And all the birds make songs for her.
Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers,
And Rathburn side is gay with flowers;
But neer like
hers, in flower or bird,
Was beauty seen or music heard.
Oh, proud and calm!she cannot know
Whereer she goes with her I go;
Oh, cold and fair!she
I kneel to share her hounds caress!
The hound and I are on her trail,
The wind and I uplift her veil;
As if the calm, cold moon she
And I the tide, I follow her.
As unrebuked as they, I share
The licence of the sun and air,
And in a common homage hide
worship from her scorn and pride.
No lance have I, in joust or fight,
To splinter in my ladys sight;
But, at her feet, how blest were
For any need of hers to die!
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