XVIII.
Thy lady did not heed The withering on the bough; Still calm her smile albeit the while A little pale her brow: "I have a father old, The lord of ancient halls; An hundred friends are in his court Yet only me he calls. Margret, Margret.
Thy lady did not heed The withering on the bough; Still calm her smile albeit the while A little pale her brow: "I have a father old, The lord of ancient halls; An hundred friends are in his court Yet only me he calls. Margret, Margret.