Sorrow hath made thine eyes more dark and keen,
And set a whiter hue upon thy cheeks,
And round thy pressèd lips drawn anguish-streaks,
And made thy forehead fearfully serene.
Even in thy steady hair her work is seen;
For its still parted darkness--till it breaks
In heavy curls upon thy shoulders--speaks,
Like the stern wave, how hard the storm hath been.
So looked that hapless Lady of the south,
Sweet Isabella, at the dreary part
Of all the pa**ioned hours of her youth
When her green basil pot by brothers' art
Was stolen away: so looked her painèd mouth
In the mute patience of a breaking heart.