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GALSWINTHA shivering with bowed head does sit.
Always these unkempt kerns, and heavens dun!
O her gold land where all the sweet months run ...
And when the dusk comes sobbing into it.


Through her brute husband's halls men see her flit,
Pallid and frail; and friends she has not one.
She kneels for whole days long at orison
In her cold bower by day with candles lit.


Her the barbarian tribesmen almost scorn,
And slow, and distant in her deep gray eyes,
She walks with cold tears and with stifled sighs.


And since for such an exile she was born,
How often I with passionate lips have kissed her!
A white corpse in my sweetest heart she lies.


O melancholy vase, Galswintha, my sister!