Excerpt from Selected Poems
The colour died from out her face, Her eyes like ghostly candles shone; She cast dread looks about the place, Then clenched her teeth and read right on. I may not pass the prison door; Here must I rot from day to day, Unless I wed whom I abhor, My cousin, Blanche of Valencay. At midnight with my dagger keen I'll take my life; it must be so. Meet me in hell to-night, my queen, For weal and Woe.'
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