Poetry Archives

I looked over the balustrade—
  The twilight had come—
And saw the pretty waiting-maid
  Kiss Roland, the page.

My lady heard the wolf-dog’s chain
  Clank on the floor;
Sly Roland caught it up again,
  And whistled a song.

Oh! they think that my heart is cold,
  Under my gown;
Not till I blacken into mould
  Will it cease to burn.

Burn, burn for such sweet red lips!
  I am almost mad,
Even to touch her finger tips,
  When we meet alone.

Roland, the page, goes here and there,
  Loving, and loved,
Women like his devil-may-care,
  Till they are forgot!

Whether I am in castle or inn,
  With sinner or saint,
Never can I a woman win,—
  I am but a priest!