She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand-
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.
Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it-
And with the Saints sat down.
No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet-
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street-
But Crowns instead, and Courtiers-
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy-immortal face
Of whom we’re whispering here?