THE KNIGHT'S TALE.
219
While he was fighting for the Cross afar.
Oh, who can tell the broken-heartedness
Of parting moments!—the fond words that gush
From the full heart, and yet die in the throat,
Whose pulses are too choked for utterance;
The lingering look of eyes half blind with tears;
The yet more lingering kiss, as if it were
The last long breath of life! Then the slow step,
Changing anon to one of hurried speed,
As that the heart doubted its own resolve!
The fixed gaze of her, who, left behind,
Watches till shadows grow reality!
And then the sudden and sick consciousness—
How desolate we are!—Oh, misery!
Thy watchword is, Farewell!—And Arnold took
A few sweet buds from off a myrtle tree,
