And one who was swathed from head to foot,
In crepe of the blackest dye.
One hiding her heart and playing a part,
And one with her mask thrown by.

But over the voice of the singer there,
The one who sat with a rose in her hair,
Seemed ever to hear the moan
Of the one who kept in the dark and wept
With her desolate heart alone.



NO COMFORT



O mad with mirth are the birds to-day
That over my head are winging.
There is nothing but glee in the roundelay
That I hear them singing, singing.
On wings of light, up, out of sight--
I watch them airily flying.
What do they know of the world below,
And the hopes that are dying, dying?

The roses turn to the sun's warm sky,
Their sweet lips red and tender;
Oh! life to them is a dream of bliss,
Of love, and passion, and splendour.