To Lady Jane
Romance was always young.You come todayJust eight years oldWith marvellous dark hair.Younger than Dante found youWhen you turnedHis heart into the wayThat found the heavenly stair.
Perhaps we must be strangers.I confessMy soul this hour is Dante’s,And your careShould be for dollsWhose painted hands caressYour marvellous dark hair.
Romance, with moonflower faceAnd morning eyes,And lips whose thread of scarlet prophesiesThe canticles of a coming king unknown,Remember, when you join himOn his throne,Even me, your far off troubadour,And wearFor me some trifling roseBeneath your veil,Dying a royal death,Happy and pale,Choked by the passion,The wonder and the snare,The glory and despairThat still will haunt and ownYour marvellous dark hair.