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She bore it till the simple veins

Traced azure on her hand —

Till pleading, round her quiet eyes

The purple Crayons stand.

Till Daffodils had come and gone

I cannot tell the sum,

And then she ceased to bear it —

And with the Saints sat down.

No more her patient figure

At twilight soft to meet —

No more her timid bonnet

Upon the village street —

But Crowns instead, and Courtiers —

And in the midst so fair,

Whose but her shy

immortal face

Of whom we’re whispering here?

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