D. L. SAYERS(SOMERVILLE)
D. L. SAYERS(SOMERVILLE)
D. L. SAYERS(SOMERVILLE)
With "That Eternitie Promised by Our Ever-living Poet."
Whydo you come to the poet, to the heart of iron and fire,Seeking soft raiment and the small things of desire,Looking for light kisses from lips bowed to sing?Less than myself I give not, and amIa little thing?I walk in scarlet and sendal through the dry plains of hell,And fine gold and rubies are all I have to sell,For I am the royal goldsmith whose goods are all of gold,And you shall live for ever like a little tale that is told;When kings pass and perish and the dust covers their name,And the high, impregnable cities are only wind and flame,The insolent new nations shall rise and read, and knowWhat a little, little lord you were, because I loved you so.
Whydo you come to the poet, to the heart of iron and fire,Seeking soft raiment and the small things of desire,Looking for light kisses from lips bowed to sing?Less than myself I give not, and amIa little thing?I walk in scarlet and sendal through the dry plains of hell,And fine gold and rubies are all I have to sell,For I am the royal goldsmith whose goods are all of gold,And you shall live for ever like a little tale that is told;When kings pass and perish and the dust covers their name,And the high, impregnable cities are only wind and flame,The insolent new nations shall rise and read, and knowWhat a little, little lord you were, because I loved you so.
Whydo you come to the poet, to the heart of iron and fire,Seeking soft raiment and the small things of desire,Looking for light kisses from lips bowed to sing?Less than myself I give not, and amIa little thing?I walk in scarlet and sendal through the dry plains of hell,And fine gold and rubies are all I have to sell,For I am the royal goldsmith whose goods are all of gold,And you shall live for ever like a little tale that is told;When kings pass and perish and the dust covers their name,And the high, impregnable cities are only wind and flame,The insolent new nations shall rise and read, and knowWhat a little, little lord you were, because I loved you so.
Whydo you come to the poet, to the heart of iron and fire,
Seeking soft raiment and the small things of desire,
Looking for light kisses from lips bowed to sing?
Less than myself I give not, and amIa little thing?
I walk in scarlet and sendal through the dry plains of hell,
And fine gold and rubies are all I have to sell,
For I am the royal goldsmith whose goods are all of gold,
And you shall live for ever like a little tale that is told;
When kings pass and perish and the dust covers their name,
And the high, impregnable cities are only wind and flame,
The insolent new nations shall rise and read, and know
What a little, little lord you were, because I loved you so.
I satand talked with youIn the shifting fire and gloom,Making you answer dueIn delicate speech and smooth—Nor did I fail to noteThe black curve of your headAnd the golden skin of your throatOn the cushion's golden-red.But all the while, behind,In the workshop of my mind,The weird weaver of doomWas walking to and fro,Drawing thread upon threadWith resolute fingers slowOf the things you did not sayAnd thought I did not know,Of the things you said to-dayAnd had said long ago,To weave on a wondrous loom,In dim colours enough,A curious, stubborn stuff—The web that we call truth.
I satand talked with youIn the shifting fire and gloom,Making you answer dueIn delicate speech and smooth—Nor did I fail to noteThe black curve of your headAnd the golden skin of your throatOn the cushion's golden-red.But all the while, behind,In the workshop of my mind,The weird weaver of doomWas walking to and fro,Drawing thread upon threadWith resolute fingers slowOf the things you did not sayAnd thought I did not know,Of the things you said to-dayAnd had said long ago,To weave on a wondrous loom,In dim colours enough,A curious, stubborn stuff—The web that we call truth.
I satand talked with youIn the shifting fire and gloom,Making you answer dueIn delicate speech and smooth—Nor did I fail to noteThe black curve of your headAnd the golden skin of your throatOn the cushion's golden-red.But all the while, behind,In the workshop of my mind,The weird weaver of doomWas walking to and fro,Drawing thread upon threadWith resolute fingers slowOf the things you did not sayAnd thought I did not know,Of the things you said to-dayAnd had said long ago,To weave on a wondrous loom,In dim colours enough,A curious, stubborn stuff—The web that we call truth.
I satand talked with you
In the shifting fire and gloom,
Making you answer due
In delicate speech and smooth—
Nor did I fail to note
The black curve of your head
And the golden skin of your throat
On the cushion's golden-red.
But all the while, behind,
In the workshop of my mind,
The weird weaver of doom
Was walking to and fro,
Drawing thread upon thread
With resolute fingers slow
Of the things you did not say
And thought I did not know,
Of the things you said to-day
And had said long ago,
To weave on a wondrous loom,
In dim colours enough,
A curious, stubborn stuff—
The web that we call truth.
Thehawthorn brave upon the greenShe hath a drooping smell and sad,But God put scent into the beanTo drive each lass unto her lad.And woe betide the weary hour,For my love is in Normandy,And oh! the scent of the bean-flowerIs like a burning fire in me.Fair fall the lusty thorn,She hath no curses at my hand,But would the man were never bornThat sowed the bean along his land!
Thehawthorn brave upon the greenShe hath a drooping smell and sad,But God put scent into the beanTo drive each lass unto her lad.And woe betide the weary hour,For my love is in Normandy,And oh! the scent of the bean-flowerIs like a burning fire in me.Fair fall the lusty thorn,She hath no curses at my hand,But would the man were never bornThat sowed the bean along his land!
Thehawthorn brave upon the greenShe hath a drooping smell and sad,But God put scent into the beanTo drive each lass unto her lad.
Thehawthorn brave upon the green
She hath a drooping smell and sad,
But God put scent into the bean
To drive each lass unto her lad.
And woe betide the weary hour,For my love is in Normandy,And oh! the scent of the bean-flowerIs like a burning fire in me.
And woe betide the weary hour,
For my love is in Normandy,
And oh! the scent of the bean-flower
Is like a burning fire in me.
Fair fall the lusty thorn,She hath no curses at my hand,But would the man were never bornThat sowed the bean along his land!
Fair fall the lusty thorn,
She hath no curses at my hand,
But would the man were never born
That sowed the bean along his land!