She is still a child, my lord.  
She runs about your palace and plays, and tries to make of you a plaything as well.
 
She not when her hair tumbles down and her careless garment drags in the dust.
 
She falls asleep when you speak to her and answers not—and the flower you give her in the morning slips to the dust from her hands.
 
When the storm bursts and darkness is o............