A.
V. Ratcliffe .
Nay, lovely
lass , '
tis
well
,'
tis
well
,
Thou
floatest white
in
the
dark
pool
's
arms
,
Thou
drownest
deep
thy
dark
alarms
,
And
liest
peaceful
in
the hell
Of thine
hair
,
that
floats
and charms
.
He sleeps
,
thy
brave
,
thy
handsome
lad,
Who
sang
awhile
on
the rolling
wold
,
He lies
deep
down
,
in
his
red
suit
clad
,
He dreams with his heart
that
once
was
glad
,
And
his mad
red
lips are
cold
.
Barden
Towers
in
a
mist
of
rain
,
The
trees
all
green
and
yellow
and gold
,
A
wistful
gloom
on
the hills
of
pain
And
a
tale
of
sadness
told
.
165