“It is not courteous, that my bower
Should be within this ruin’d tower!”
“But see, knight, ’tis not in decay;
The storm hath blown a bar away,
And the raven through the loop doth stray;
His nest is wet on the battlement grey:
Your chamber is a stately room,
Hung round with work of choicest loom;
And erst it was the resting-place
Of our dear Lady Baroness,
Before she went to stranger-land.
My lord yet strays on foreign strand.
The chamber has another stair,
Leading to many chambers fair;
But no step goes by night so far,
Since my lord baron went to war.”