With hot-flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes,
And quivering lips on which the tide
Of courtly speech abruptly died,
And a glance which over the crowded floor,
The dancers, and the festive host,
Flew ever to the door;
That the knights eyed her in surprise,
And the dames whispered scoffingly,—
"Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers!
But yesternight and she would be
As pale and still as withered flowers;
And now to-night she laughs and speaks,
And has a color in her cheeks.
Christ keep us from such fantasy!"—
Yes, now the longing is o'erpast,
Which, dogged by fear and fought by shame
Shook her weak bosom day and night,
Consumed her beauty like a flame,
And dimmed it like the desert-blast.
And though the curtains hide her face,
Yet, were it lifted to the light,
The sweet expression of her brow
Would charm the gazer, till his thought
Erased the ravages of time,
Filled up the hollow cheek, and brought
A freshness back as of her prime,—
So healing is her quiet now;
So perfectly the lines express
A tranquil, settled loveliness,
Her younger rival's purest grace.
The air of the December-night
