O what is this you've done to me, Or what have I done, That bare should be our fair roof-tree, And I all alone? 'Tis worse than widow I become More than desolate,...
When winds blow high and leaves begin to fall, And the wan sunlight flits before the blast; When fields are brown and crops are garnered all, And rooks, like mastered ships, drift wide and fast;...
I cannot add one tendril to your bays, Worn quietly where who love you sing your praise; But I may stand Among the household throng with lifted hand, Upholding for sweet honour of the land...
Sometimes the spirit that never leaves me quite Taps at my heart when thou art in the way, Saying, Now thy Queen cometh: therefore pray, Lest she should see thee vile, and at the sight...