’Tis hers to walk when sunsets yield 
     
     Their painted splendors to the skies, 
     
     And dream on some far battlefield 
     
     Perchance alone, unwatched, he dies; 
     
     ’Tis hers to kneel in patient prayer 
     
     When midnight stars keep sentinel, 
     
     Lest the chill death-dews damp the hair 
     
     Upon the brow she loves so well. 
     
    
   
   
    
     So stands she, white and sad and sweet, 
     
     Upon the latticed balcony, 
     
    

    
     From golden hair to slender feet 
     
     No lady is so fair as she; 
     
    

    
     He loves her true, he holds her dear, 
     
     But he must ride on dangerous quest, 
     
    

    
     With gallant glance and smile of cheer, 
     
     And her red rose upon his breast. 
     
    
   
   
    
     155