Poetry Archives

Her brown hair knew no royal crest,
 No gems nor jeweled charms,
No roses her bright cheek caressed,
 No lilies kissed her arms.
In simple, modest womanhood
 Clad, as was meet, in white,
The fairest flower of all, she stood
 Amid the softest light.

It had been worth a perilous quest
 To see the court she drew,—
My rose, my gem, my royal crest,
 My lily moist with dew;
Worth heaven, when, with farewells from each
 The gay throng let us be,
To see her turn at last and reach
 Her white hands out to me.