She bore it

She bore it till the simple veins

Traced azure on her hand --

Til pleading, round her quiet eyes

The purple Crayons stand.

Till Daffodils had come and gone

I cannot tell the sum,

And then she ceased to bear it --

And with the Saints sat down.

No more her patient figure

At twilight soft to meet --

No more her timid bonnet

Upon the village street --

But Crowns instead, and Courtiers --

And in the midst so fair,

Whose but her shy -- immortal face

Of whom we're whispering here?