| |
King Henry's lament for his third wife.
As the winds turn biting cold,
and, as green leaves turn to gold,
a cloak of velvet I would fold
around your form, your grace,
With each step on icy ground,
with each heartbeat's hollow sound,
a hood of swansdown I'd place round
your pretty, pale, sad face,
Would that I could end this pain,
hear your laughter ring again,
dance with you, my dearest Jane,
and bring you from this place.
|