But when that moan had past for ever more, The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn When, pale as yet and fever-worn, the Prince Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering life again Amazed him, and he groan'd, 'The King From halfway down the shadow of the is gone.' grave Past with thee thro' thy people and their love, Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard. But Pippa- just one such mischance would spoil Her day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toil At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil! One splash of water ruins you asleep, 70 80 Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee, Love thy queen, worship me! - Worship whom else? For am I not, this day, Whate'er I please? What shall I please to-day? My morn, noon, eve and night—how spend my day? To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk, The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk: But, this one day, I have leave to go, Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo! See! Up the hillside yonder, through the morning, Some one shall love me, as the world calls love: I am no less than Ottima, take warning! The gardens, and the great stone house above, And other house for shrubs, all glass in front, |