By Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
‘The myrtle bush grew shady
Down by the ford.’
‘Is it even so?’ said my lady.
‘Even so!’ said my lord.
‘The leaves are set too thick together
For the point of a sword.
‘The arras in your room hangs close,
No light between!
You wedded one of those that see unseen.’
‘Is it even so?’ said the King’s Majesty.
‘Even so!’ said the Queen.