Take heart of grace! the potion of Life
May go far to woo him a wife:  440
If she frown, yet a lover’s strife
  Lightly raised can be laid again: 
A hasty word is never the knife
    To cut love in twain.

Far away stretched the royal land,
Fed by dew, by a spice-wind fanned: 
Light labour more, and his foot would stand
  On the threshold, all labour done;
Easy pleasure laid at his hand,
    And the dear Bride won. 450

His slackening steps pause at the gate—­
Does she wake or sleep?—­the time is late—­
Does she sleep now, or watch and wait? 
  She has watched, she has waited long,
Watching athwart the golden grate
    With a patient song.

Fling the golden portals wide,
The Bridegroom comes to his promised Bride;
Draw the gold-stiff curtains aside,
  Let them look on each other’s face, 460
She in her meekness, he in his pride—­
    Day wears apace.

Day is over, the day that wore. 
What is this that comes through the door,
The face covered, the feet before? 
  This that coming takes his breath;
The Bride not seen, to be seen no more
    Save of Bridegroom Death?

Veiled figures carrying her
Sweep by yet make no stir; 470
There is a smell of spice and myrrh,
  A bride-chant burdened with one name;
The bride-song rises steadier
    Than the torches’ flame: 

’Too late for love, too late for joy,
  Too late, too late! 
You loitered on the road too long,
  You trifled at the gate: 
The enchanted dove upon her branch
  Died without a mate; 480
The enchanted princess in her tower
  Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
  You made it wait.

’Ten years ago, five years ago,
  One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
  Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
  Which now you cannot know:  490
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
  The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
  To melt the snow.

’Is she fair now as she lies? 
  Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
  With gold-dust on her hair. 
Now these are poppies in her locks,
  White poppies she must wear; 500
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
  And the want graven there: 
Or is the hunger fed at length,
  Cast off the care?

’We never saw her with a smile
  Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
  Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
  Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; 510
We think her white brows often ached
  Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
  That used to be so brown.