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THE LOVER'S TALE.
47
Oh friend, thoughts deep and heavy as these well-nigh
O'erbore the limits of my brain: but he
Bent o'er me, and my neck his arm upstay'd.
I thought it was an adder's fold, and once
I strove to disengage myself, but fail'd,
Being so feeble: she bent above me, too;
Wan was her cheek; for whatsoe'er of blight
Lives in the dewy touch of pity had made
The red rose there a pale one — and her eyes—
I saw the moonlight glitter on their tears—
And some few drops of that distressful rain
Fell on my face, and her long ringlets moved.
Drooping and beaten by the breeze, and brush'd
My fallen forehead in their to and fro.
For in the sudden anguish of her heart
Loosed from their simple thrall they had flow'd abroad,
