Through the blue silence of the sky,
Fresh stars shine out, and more and more,
Where I could see so few before;
So, the more steadily I gaze
Upon those far-off misty days,
Fresh words, fresh tones, fresh memories start
Before my eyes and in my heart. 
I can remember how one day
(Talking in silly childish way)
I said how happy I should be
If I were like her son—­as fair,
With just such bright blue eyes as he,
And such long locks of golden hair. 
A strange smile on her pale face broke,
And in strange solemn words she spoke: 
“My own, my darling one—­no, no! 
I love you, far, far better so. 
I would not change the look you bear,
Or one wave of your dark brown hair. 
The mere glance of your sunny eyes,
Deep in my deepest soul I prize
Above that baby fair! 
Not one of all the Earl’s proud line
In beauty ever matched with thine;
And, ’tis by thy dark locks thou art
Bound even faster round my heart,
And made more wholly mine!”
And then she paused, and weeping said,
“You are like one who now is dead—­
Who sleeps in a far-distant grave. 
Oh may God grant that you may be
As noble and as good as he,
As gentle and as brave!”
Then in my childish way I cried,
“The one you tell me of who died,
Was he as noble as the Earl?”
I see her red lips scornful curl,
I feel her hold my hand again
So tightly, that I shrink in pain—­
I seem to hear her say,
“He whom I tell you of, who died,
He was so noble and so gay,
So generous and so brave,
That the proud Earl by his dear side
Would look a craven slave.” 
She paused; then, with a quivering sigh,
She laid her hand upon my brow: 
“Live like him, darling, and so die. 
Remember that he tells you now,
True peace, real honour, and content,
In cheerful pious toil abide;
That gold and splendour are but sent
To curse our vanity and pride.” 
One day some childish fever pain
Burnt in my veins and fired my brain. 
Moaning, I turned from side to side;
And, sobbing in my bed, I cried,
Till night in calm and darkness crept
Around me, and at last I slept. 
When suddenly I woke to see
The Lady bending over me. 
The drops of cold November rain
Were falling from her long, damp hair;
Her anxious eyes were dim with pain;
Yet she looked wondrous fair. 
Arrayed for some great feast she came,
With stones that shone and burnt like flame;
Wound round her neck, like some bright snake,
And set like stars within her hair,
They sparkled so, they seemed to make
A glory everywhere. 
I felt her tears upon my face,
Her kisses on my eyes;
And a strange thought I could not trace
I felt within my heart arise;
And, half in feverish pain, I said: 
“Oh if my mother were not dead!”
And Walter bade me sleep; but she
Said, “Is it not the same to thee
That I watch by thy bed?”