Grey

LADY of Sorrow! What though laughing blue,   
 Thy sister, mock men’s anguish, and the sun   
 Glare like a wrathful judge on many a one   
That longs for night his bitter shame to rue,   
Yet dost thou grant thy mercy of mist and dew           
 And cloud and calm ere angry day be done,   
 Weaving over the vault the weary shun   
Thy veil of peace, with pity trembling through.   
  
When all light loves and all brave hues are flown,   
 When beaten hope falls from the reeling fight,           
   And life is lone upon her desolate way,   
 And noon is fierce, and no men see aright,   
Then weary eyes turn unto thee, their own,   
 Lady of Grief, the soul’s madonna, Grey.   
  
II

Yet not in sorrow only art thou fair,           
 For joy may know and love thee in the pall   
 Of spray that slumbers on the waterfall,   
Or in low cottage-smoke in evening air   
Or in brave stone carven in glory rare,   
 Or when the tender mists of Autumn fall           
 Dappling the mead with beauty, and the tall   
Stark dreaming oaks thine ancient livery wear.   
  
Yet none hath known thy loveliness aright   
 Save him who gazing in his lady’s eyes   
Sees dim lists tossing with plumes of many a knight           
   And woods where elfin waters gleam and glance,   
   And all the vision and faith of old romance   
 And the great dream of youth that never dies.