Windowsill
My lady fair sits by the window sill.
I know not what she thinks, or what she will.
Her darkened eyes look out – and yet to what?
Her rosy lips their wonted smile hold not;
Her soft white hands she clasps and tightly wrings;
Her silver voice no joyful ballad sings.
I’d lief she weep, I’d lief she’d cry “Alack!”
I’d lief she held no grief, thus silent, back;
But what emotion racks the gentle breast
Will not declare itself at my behest.
She must it seems keep closeted inside
Some dread that cannot yet be tossed aside.
Ah me! I hope one day my lady fair
Will yet awake and breathe a kinder air