Fifty Quatrains

'Twas fifty quatrains: and from unknown strands
The woman came who sang them on the floor.
I saw her, I was leaning by the door,
— Saw her strange raiment and her lovely hands;
And saw . . . but that I think she sang — the bands
Of low-voiced women on a happy shore:
Incomparable was the haze, and bore
The many blossoms of soft orchard lands.
'Twas fifty quatrains, for I caught the measure;
And all the royal house was full of kings.
Who listened and beheld her and were dumb;
Nor dared to seize the marvellous rich pleasure.
Too fearful even to ask in whisperings,
The ramparts being closed, whence she had come.