58
THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
Awhile she paced her stately room—
She felt its heat, she felt its gloom—
The tapestry o'er the walls that hung
Flung shadows it had never flung;
She loathed each old familiar thing,—
Her missal with its golden band;
The lute, whose scarcely silent string
Yet trembled with her last command;
The song she sang last night—such song
Would never more to her belong;
Her books, her flowers—o'er all was cast
The bitter presence of the past.
The silken curtains back she drew,
And back the moonlit lattice threw;
In came the soft and fragrant air,—
In came the moonlight soft and fair,—
