II

From brow and bosom slowly down

Thro' rosy taper fingers drew

      Her streaming curls of deepest brown

To left and right, and made appear

      Still-lighted in a secret shrine,

      Her melancholy eyes divine,

The home of woe without a tear.

            And "Ave Mary," was her moan,

                  "Madonna, sad is night and morn,"

            And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone,

                  To live forgotten, and love forlorn."