I calmed me, and he calmed him as he might. 
For I bethought me I was yet an host,
And he bethought him on the worthiness
Of my first deeds. 
                    So made I sign to him. 
The tide was up, and soon I had him forth,
Delivered him his goods, commended him
To the captain o’ the vessel, then plucked off
My hat, in seemly fashion taking leave,
And he was not outdone, but every way
Gave me respect, and on the deck we two
Parted, as I did hope, to meet no more.

Alas! my Rosamund, my Rosamund! 
She did not weep, no.  Plain upon me, no. 
Her eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears: 
As new-washed flowers shake off the down-dropt rain,
And make denial of it, yet more blue
And fair of favour afterward, so they. 
The wild woodrose was not more fresh of blee
Than her soft dimpled cheek:  but I beheld,
Come home, a token hung about her neck,
Sparkling upon her bosom for his sake,
Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not,
All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale.

And all that day went like another day,
Ay, all the next; then was I glad at heart;
Methought, ’I am glad thou wilt not waste thy youth
Upon an alien man, mine enemy,
Thy nation’s enemy.  In truth, in truth,
This likes me very well.  My most dear child,
Forget yon grave dark mariner.  The Lord
Everlasting,’ I besought, ‘bring it to pass.’

Stealeth a darker day within my hall,
A winter day of wind and driving foam. 
They tell me that my girl is sick—­and yet
Not very sick.  I may not hour by hour,
More than one watching of a moon that wanes,
Make chronicle of change.  A parlous change
When he looks back to that same moon at full.

Ah! ah! methought, ’t will pass.  It did not pass,
Though never she made moan.  I saw the rings
Drop from her small white wasted hand.  And I,
Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given
My land, my name to have her as of old. 
Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small
White face.  Ay, Rosamund.  O near as white,
And mournfuller by much, her mother dear
Drooped by her couch; and while of hope and fear
Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide,
We thought ‘The girl is better,’ or we thought
‘The girl will die,’ that jewel from her neck
She drew, and prayed me send it to her love;
A token she was true e’en to the end. 
What matter’d now?  But whom to send, and how
To reach the man?  I found an old poor priest,
Some peril ’t was for him and me, she writ
My pretty Rosamund her heart’s farewell,
She kissed the letter, and that old poor priest,
Who had eaten of my bread, and shelter’d him
Under my roof in troublous times, he took,
And to content her on this errand went,
While she as done with earth did wait the end.