Home, In War-Time

She turned the fair page with her fairer hand-
More fair and frail than it was wont to be-
O'er each remembered thing he loved to see
She lingered, and as with a fairy's wand
Enchanted it to order. Oft she fanned
New motes into the sun; and as a bee
Sings thro' a brake of bells, so murmured she,
And so her patient love did understand
The reliquary room. Upon the sill
She fed his favourite bird. 'Ah, Robin, sing!
He loves thee.' Then she touches a sweet string
Of soft recall, and towards the Eastern hill
Smiles all her soul-for him who cannot hear
The raven croaking at his carrion ear.