II
Too Late
Delayed till she had ceased to know,Delayed till in its vest of snowHer loving bosom lay.An hour behind the fleeting breath,Later by just an hour than death,—Oh, lagging yesterday!
Could she have guessed that it would be;Could but a crier of the gleeHave climbed the distant hill;Had not the bliss so slow a pace,—Who knows but this surrendered faceWere undefeated still?
Oh, if there may departing beAny forgot by victoryIn her imperial round,Show them this meek apparelled thing,That could not stop to be a king,Doubtful if it be crowned!