📔 Idylls of the King

[S]he to Almesbury / Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, / And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald / Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan: […]

On a sudden, many a voice along the street, / And heel against the pavement echoing, burst / Their drowze; […]

And in herself she moan’d, ‘Too late, too late!’ / Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, / A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, / Croak’d, […]

She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw / The quiet night into her blood, but lay / Contemplating her own unworthiness; / And when the pale and bloodless east began / To quicken to the sun, arose, […]