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And upon thy arm of snow
Rubies like red sun-gifts glow;
Yet thou wearest pearl and gem
As thou hadst forgotten them.
'Tis a step, but made to tread
O'er Persian's web, or flower's head,—
Soft hand that might only move
In the broidered silken glove,—
Cheek unused to ruder air
Than what hot-house rose might bear;
One whom nature only meant
To be Queen of the tournament,—
Courtly fête, and lighted hall,—
Grace and ornament of all!
