She felt, I think, but as a wild-flower can,
  Through her bright fluttering rags, the dark, the cold.
Some farthest star, remembering what man
  Forgets, had warmed her little head with gold.

Above her, hollow-eyed, long blind to tears,
  Leaf-cloaked, a skeleton of stone arose….
O castle-shadow of a thousand years,
  Where you have...