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 passioned 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.
