That seemed for some fair queen apparelled; And marble was the worst stone of the floor, That with rich Indian webs was covered o'er. 126

The wanderer trembled when he saw all this, Because he deemed by magic it was wrought; Yet in his heart a longing for some bliss, Whereof the hard and changing world knows nought,

Arose and urged him on, and dimmed the thought

That there perchance some devil lurked to slay The heedless wanderer from the light of day. 133

553

Naked she was, the kisses of her feet Upon the floor a dying path had made From the full bath unto her ivory seat; In her right hand, upon her bosom laid, She held a golden comb, a mirror weighed Her left hand down, aback her fair head lay Dreaming awake of some long vanished day. 189

Her eyes were shut, but she seemed not to sleep, Her lips were murmuring things unheard and low, Or sometimes twitched as though she needs must weep

Though from her eyes the tears refused to flow, And oft with heavenly red her cheek did glow, As if remembrance of some half-sweet shame Across the web of many memories came.

196

Another day and no soul come," she said; "Another year, and still I am not dead!" And with that word once more her head she raised, 209 And on the trembling man with great eyes gazed.

Then he imploring hands to her did reach, And toward her very slowly 'gan to move And with wet eyes her pity did beseech, And seeing her about to speak, he strove

Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean gone,
Followed him not, but crying horribly,
Caught up within her jaws a block of stone
And ground it into powder, then turned she,
With cries that folk could hear far out at sea,
And reached the treasure set apart of old,
To brood above the hidden heaps of gold.

Yet was she seen again on many a day
By some half-waking mariner, or herd,
Playing amid the ripples of the bay,
Or on the hills making all things afeard,
Or in the wood, that did that castle gird,
But never any man again durst go

To seek her woman's form, and end her woe.

497

503

First you come by ones, and ones, Lastly in battalions;

Skirmish along hedge and bank, Turn old Winter's wavering flank; Round his flying footsteps hover, Seize on hollow, ridge, and cover, Leave nor slope nor hill unharried, Till, his snowy trenches carried, O'er his sepulchre you laugh, Winter's joyous epitaph.

II

This, too, be your glory great,
Primroses, you do not wait,
As the other flowers do,
For the Spring to smile on you,
But with coming are content,
Asking no encouragement.
Ere the hardy crocus cleaves
Sunny borders 'neath the eaves;
Ere the thrush his song rehearse,
Sweeter than all poets' verse;
Ere the early bleating lambs
Cling like shadows to their dams;
Ere the blackthorn breaks to white,
Snowy-hooded anchorite;

Out from every hedge you look,
You are bright by every brook,
Wearing for your sole defence
Fearlessness of innocence.
While the daffodils still waver,
Ere the jonquil gets its savour;
While the linnets yet but pair,
You are fledged, and everywhere.
Nought can daunt you, nought distress,
Neither cold nor sunlessness.
You, when Lent sleet flies apace,

Look the tempest in the face;
As descend the flakes more slow,
From your eyelids shake the snow,
And, when all the clouds have flown,
Meet the sun's smile with your own.
Nothing ever makes you less
Gracious to ungraciousness.
March may bluster up and down,

ΙΟ

Pettish April sulk and frown; Closer to their skirts you cling, Coaxing Winter to be Spring.

In its cradle day by day,

Dead or living, hard to say;

Now that mid-March blows and blusters,

Out you steal in tufts and clusters,

Making leafless lane and wood

Vernal with your hardihood.

Other lovely things are rare,

You are prodigal as fair.

III

Then, when your sweet task is done, And the wild-flowers, one by one, Here, there, everywhere do blow, Primroses, you haste to go,