She is beautiful yet, with her wondrous hair 
 And eyes that are stormy with fitful light, 
The delicate hues of brow and cheek 
 Are unmarred all, rose-clear and bright; 
That matchless frame yet holds at bay 
The crouching bloodhounds, Remorse, Decay. 

There is no fear in her great dark eyes -- 
 No hope, no love, no care, 
Stately and proud she looks around 
 With a fierce, defiant stare; 
Wild words deform her reckless speech, 
Her laugh has a sadness tears never reach. 

Whom should she fear on earth? Can Fate 
 One direr torment lend 
To her few little years of glitter and gloom 
 With the sad old story to end 
When the spectres of Loneliness, Want and Pain 
Shall arise one night with Death in their train? 

I see in a vision a woman like her 
 Trip down an orchard slope, 
With rosy prattlers that shout a name 
 In tones of rapture and hope; 
While the yeoman, gazing at children and wife, 
Thanks God for the pride and joy of his life. 

Whose conscience is heavy with this dark guilt? 
 Who pays at the final day 
For a wasted body, a murdered soul, 
 And how shall he answer, I say, 
For her outlawed years, her early doom, 
And despair -- despair -- beyond the tomb?