Part 2 — HER DWELLING-PLACE
Reading edition
Amid the fairest things that grow My lady hath her dwelling-place; Where runnels flow, and frail buds blow As shy and pallid as her face.
The wild, bright creatures of the wood About her fearless flit and spring; To light her dusky solitude Comes April's earliest offering.
The calm Night from her urn of rest Pours downward an unbroken stream; All day upon her mother's breast My lady lieth in a dream.
Love could not chill her low, soft bed With any sad memorial stone; He put a red rose at her head— A flame as fragrant as his own.
Ada Foster Murray [1857-1936]