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But he said: ‘My love she had golden hair —
Her hands, her feet, they were lily-fair:
So you can never be love of mine.’

‘O Love!’ she cried, ‘if I am not thine,
My hands grew hard as they wove for thee
The magic cloak that hath set thee free.
My face grew sad, and my hair grew white,
In the silent horror of many a night.
And what shall I now that hope’s beacon-glow
Is quenched, and my heart sinks with gloom and woe?
Thy love,’ she cried, ‘be she lily- fair
As the fruit-tree’s bloom that may never bear,
Thou hungeredst — to fruit the blossom came:
Thus youth was lost and thus beauty slain.
Thy Sweet was fair as the page unwrit
Till Love’s strong hand traced his name on it.
Then, O my dear, if thou canst not see
This sorrow cometh from love of thee,
Be blind awhile with a rising tear.
And thou wilt find that thy love is here.’
But ah for woman whose heart is strong
To weary never and love too long!
And what is life to a heart denied?
Fair Lady Kathleen drooped and died.