Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest,

      And in her chamber, through the hours of rest,

      The darkness was alight for her with sheen

      Of arms, and plumèd helm; and bright between

      Their commoner gloss, like the pure living spring

      ’Twixt porphyry lips, or living bird’s bright wing

      ’Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king

      Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there

      Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare:

      The impalpable dream was turned to breathing flesh,

      Chill thought of summer to the warm close mesh

      Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves,

      Clothing her life of life.  Oh! she believes

      That she could be content if he but knew

      (Her poor small self could claim no other due)

      How Lisa’s lowly love had highest reach

      Of wingèd passion, whereto wingèd speech

      Would be scorched remnants left by mounting flame.

      Though, had she such lame message, were it blame

      To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank

      She held in loving?  Modest maidens shrank

      From telling love that fed on selfish hope;

      But love, as hopeless as the shattering song,

      Wailed for loved beings who have joined the throng

      Of mighty dead ones. . . .  Nay, but she was weak,

      Knew only prayers and ballads, could not speak

      With eloquence, save what dumb creatures have,

      That with small cries and touches small boons crave.

      She watched all day that she might see him pass

      With knights and ladies; but she said, “Alas!

      Though he should see me, it were all as one

      He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone

      Of wall or balcony: some colored spot