III

Into deep orange o'er the sea,

Low on her knees herself she cast,

      Before Our Lady murmur'd she;

Complaining, "Mother, give me grace

      To help me of my weary load."

      And on the liquid mirror glow'd

The clear perfection of her face.

            "Is this the form," she made her moan,

                  "That won his praises night and morn?"

            And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone,

                  I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn."