It hath been seen and yet it shall be seenThat out of tender mouths God's praise hath beenMade perfect, and with wood and simple stringHe hath played music sweet as shawm-playingTo please himself with softness of all sound;And no small thing but hath been sometime foundFull sweet of use, and no such humblenessBut God hath bruised withal the sentencesAnd evidence of wise men witnessing;No leaf that is so soft a hidden thingIt never shall get sight of the great sun;The strength of ten has been the strength of one,And lowliness has waxed imperious.There was in Rome a man TheophilusOf right great blood and gracious ways, that hadAll noble fashions to make people gladAnd a soft life of pleasurable days;He was a goodly man for one to praise,Flawless and whole upward from foot to head;His arms were a red hawk that alway fedOn a small bird with feathers gnawed upon,Beaten and plucked about the bosom-boneWhereby a small round fleck like fire there was:They called it in their tongue lampadias;This was the banner of the lordly man.In many straits of sea and reaches wanFull of quick wind, and many a shaken firth,It had seen fighting days of either earth,Westward or east of waters Gaditane(This was the place of sea-rocks under SpainCalled after the great praise of Hercules)And north beyond the washing Pontic seas,Far windy Russian places fabulous,And salt fierce tides of storm-swoln Bosphorus.Now as this lord came straying in Rome townHe saw a little lattice open downAnd after it a press of maidens' headsThat sat upon their cold small quiet bedsTalking, and played upon short-stringèd lutes;And other some ground perfume out of rootsGathered by marvellous moons in Asia;Saffron and aloes and wild cassia,Coloured all through and smelling of the sun;And over all these was a certain oneClothed softly, with sweet herbs about her hairAnd bosom flowerful; her face more fairThan sudden-singing April in soft lands:Eyed like a gracious bird, and in both handsShe held a psalter painted green and red.This Theophile laughed at the heart, and said,Now God so help me hither and St. Paul,As by the new time of their festivalI have good will to take this maid to wife.And herewith fell to fancies of her lifeAnd soft half-thoughts that ended suddenly.This is man's guise to please himself, when heShall not see one thing of his pleasant things,Nor with outwatch of many travailingsCome to be eased of the least pain he hathFor all his love and all his foolish wrathAnd all the heavy manner of his mind.Thus is he like a fisher fallen blindThat casts his nets across the boat awryTo strike the sea, but lo, he striketh dryAnd plucks them back all broken for his painAnd bites his beard and casts across againAnd reaching wrong slips over in the sea.So hath this man a strangled neck for fee,For all his cost he chuckles in his throat.This Theophile that little hereof woteLaid wait to hear of her what she might be:Men told him she had name of Dorothy,And was a lady of a worthy house.Thereat this knight grew inly gloriousThat he should have a love so fair of place.She was a maiden of most quiet face,Tender of speech, and had no hardihoodBut was nigh feeble of her fearful blood;Her mercy in her was so marvellousFrom her least years, that seeing her school-fellowsThat read beside her stricken with a rod,She would cry sore and say some word to GodThat he would ease her fellow of his pain.There is no touch of sun or fallen rainThat ever fell on a more gracious thing.In middle Rome there was in stone-workingThe church of Venus painted royally.The chapels of it were some two or three,In each of them her tabernacle wasAnd a wide window of six feet in glassColoured with all her works in red and gold.The altars had bright cloths and cups to holdThe wine of Venus for the services,Made out of honey and crushed wood-berriesThat shed sweet yellow through the thick wet red,That on high days was borne upon the headOf Venus' priest for any man to drink;So that in drinking he should fall to thinkOn some fair face, and in the thought thereofWorship, and such should triumph in his love.For this soft wine that did such grace and goodWas new trans-shaped and mixed with Love's own blood,That in the fighting Trojan time was bled;For which came such a woe to DiomedThat he was stifled after in hard sea.And some said that this wine-shedding should beMade of the falling of Adonis' blood,That curled upon the thorns and broken woodAnd round the gold silk shoes on Venus' feet;The taste thereof was as hot honey sweetAnd in the mouth ran soft and riotous.This was the holiness of Venus' house.It was their worship, that in August daysTwelve maidens should go through those Roman waysNaked, and having gold across their browsAnd their hair twisted in short golden rows,To minister to Venus in this wise:And twelve men chosen in their companiesTo match these maidens by the altar-stair,All in one habit, crowned upon the hair.Among these men was chosen Theophile.This knight went out and prayed a little while,Holding queen Venus by her hands and knees;I will give thee twelve royal imagesCut in glad gold, with marvels of wrought stoneFor thy sweet priests to lean and pray upon,Jasper and hyacinth and chrysopras,And the strange Asian thalamite that wasHidden twelve ages under heavy seaAmong the little sleepy pearls, to beA shrine lit over with soft candle-flameBurning all night red as hot brows of shame,So thou wilt be my lady without sin.Goddess that art all gold outside and in,Help me to serve thee in thy holy way.Thou knowest, Love, that in my bearing dayThere shone a laughter in the singing starsRound the gold-ceilèd bride-bed wherein MarsTouched thee and had thee in your kissing wise.Now therefore, sweet, kiss thou my maiden's eyesThat they may open graciously towards me;And this new fashion of thy shrine shall beAs soft with gold as thine own happy head.The goddess, that was painted with face redBetween two long green tumbled sides of sea,Stooped her neck sideways, and spake pleasantly:Thou shalt have grace as thou art thrall of mine.And with this came a savour of shed wineAnd plucked-out petals from a rose's head:And softly with slow laughs of lip she said,Thou shalt have favour all thy days of me.Then came Theophilus to Dorothy,Saying: O sweet, if one should strive or speakAgainst God's ways, he gets a beaten cheekFor all his wage and shame above all men.Therefore I have no will to turn againWhen God saith "go," lest a worse thing fall out.Then she, misdoubting lest he went aboutTo catch her wits, made answer somewhat thus:I have no will, my lord Theophilus,To speak against this worthy word of yours;Knowing how God's will in all speech endures,That save by grace there may no thing be said,Then Theophile waxed light from foot to head,And softly fell upon this answering.It is well seen you are a chosen thingTo do God service in his gracious way.I will that you make haste and holidayTo go next year upon the Venus stair,Covered none else, but crowned upon your hair,And do the service that a maiden doth.She said: but I that am Christ's maid were lothTo do this thing that hath such bitter name.Thereat his brows were beaten with sore shameAnd he came off and said no other word.Then his eyes chanced upon his banner-bird,And he fell fingering at the staff of itAnd laughed for wrath and stared between his feet,And out of a chafed heart he spake as thus:Lo how she japes at me Theophilus,Feigning herself a fool and hard to love;Yet in good time for all she boasteth ofShe shall be like a little beaten bird.And while his mouth was open in that wordHe came upon the house Janiculum,Where some went busily, and other someTalked in the gate called the gate glorious.The emperor, which was one Gabalus,Sat over all and drank chill wine alone.To whom is come Theophilus anon,And said as thus:Beau sire, Dieu vous aide.And afterward sat under him, and saidAll this thing through as ye have wholly heard.This Gabalus laughed thickly in his beard.Yea, this is righteousness and maiden rule.Truly, he said, a maid is but a fool.And japed at them as one full villainous,In a lewd wise, this heathen Gabalus,And sent his men to bind her as he bade.Thus have they taken Dorothy the maid,And haled her forth as men hale pick-purses:A little need God knows they had of this,To hale her by her maiden gentle hair.Thus went she lowly, making a soft prayer,As one who stays the sweet wine in his mouth,Murmuring with eased lips, and is most lothTo have done wholly with the sweet of it.Christ king, fair Christ, that knowest all men's witAnd all the feeble fashion of my ways,O perfect God, that from all yesterdaysAbidest whole with morrows perfected,I pray thee by thy mother's holy headThou help me to do right, that I not slip:I have no speech nor strength upon my lip,Except thou help me who art wise and sweet.Do this too for those nails that clove thy feet,Let me die maiden after many pains.Though I be least among thy handmaidens,Doubtless I shall take death more sweetly thus.Now have they brought her to King Gabalus,Who laughed in all his throat some breathing-whiles:By God, he said, if one should leap two miles,He were not pained about the sides so much.This were a soft thing for a man to touch.Shall one so chafe that hath such little bones?And shook his throat with thick and chuckled moansFor laughter that she had such holiness.What aileth thee, wilt thou do services?It were good fare to fare as Venus doth.Then said this lady with her maiden mouth,Shamefaced, and something paler in the cheek:Now, sir, albeit my wit and will to speakGive me no grace in sight of worthy men,For all my shame yet know I this again,I may not speak, nor after downlyingRise up to take delight in lute-playing,Nor sing nor sleep, nor sit and fold my hands,But my soul in some measure understandsGod's grace laid like a garment over me.For this fair God that out of strong sharp seaLifted the shapely and green-coloured land,And hath the weight of heaven in his handAs one might hold a bird, and under himThe heavy golden planets beam by beamBuilding the feasting-chambers of his house,And the large world he holdeth with his brows,And with the light of them astonishethAll place and time and face of life and deathAnd motion of the north wind and the south,And is the sound within his angel's mouthOf singing words and words of thanksgiving,And is the colour of the latter springAnd heat upon the summer and the sun,And is beginning of all things begunAnd gathers in him all things to their end,And with the fingers of his hand doth bendThe stretched-out sides of heaven like a sail,And with his breath he maketh the red paleAnd fills with blood faint faces of men dead,And with the sound between his lips are fedIron and fire and the white body of snow,And blossom of all trees in places low,And small bright herbs about the little hills,And fruit pricked softly with birds' tender bills,And flight of foam about green fields of sea,And fourfold strength of the great winds that beMoved always outward from beneath his feet,And growth of grass and growth of sheavèd wheatAnd all green flower of goodly-growing lands;And all these things he gathers with his handsAnd covers all their beauty with his wings;The same, even God that governs all these things,Hath set my feet to be upon his ways.Now therefore for no painfulness of daysI shall put off this service bound on me.Also, fair sir, ye know this certainly,How God was in his flesh full chaste and meekAnd gave his face to shame, and either cheekGave up to smiting of men tyrannous.And here with a great voice this GabalusCried out and said: By God's blood and his bones,This were good game betwixen night and nonesFor one to sit and hearken to such saws:I were as lief fall in some big beast's jawsAs hear these women's jaw-teeth clattering;By God a woman is the harder thing,One may not put a hook into her mouth.Now by St. Luke I am so sore adrouthFor all these saws I must needs drink again.But I pray God deliver all us menFrom all such noise of women and their heat.That is a noble scripture, well I weet,That likens women to an empty can;When God said that he was a full wise man,I trow no man may blame him as for that.And herewithal he drank a draught, and spat,And said: Now shall I make an end hereof.Come near all men and hearken for God's love,And ye shall hear a jest or twain, God wot.And spake as thus with mouth full thick and hot;But thou do this thou shalt be shortly slain.Lo, sir, she said, this death and all this painI take in penance of my bitter sins.Yea now, quoth Gabalus, this game begins.Lo, without sin one shall not live a span.Lo, this is she that would not look on manBetween her fingers folded in thwart wise.See how her shame hath smitten in her eyesThat was so clean she had not heard of shame.Certes, he said, by Gabalus my name,This two years back I was not so well pleased.This were good mirth for sick men to be easedAnd rise up whole and laugh at hearing of.I pray thee show us something of thy love,Since thou wast maid thy gown is waxen wide.Yea, maid I am, she said, and somewhat sighed,As one who thought upon the low fair houseWhere she sat working, with soft bended browsWatching her threads, among the school-maidens.And she thought well now God had brought her thenceShe should not come to sew her gold again.Then cried King Gabalus upon his menTo have her forth and draw her with steel gins.And as a man hag-ridden beats and grinsAnd bends his body sidelong in his bed,So wagged he with his body and knave's head,Gaping at her, and blowing with his breath.And in good time he gat an evil deathOut of his lewdness with his cursèd wives:His bones were hewn asunder as with knivesFor his misliving, certes it is said.But all the evil wrought upon this maid,It were full hard for one to handle it.For her soft blood was shed upon her feet,And all her body's colour bruised and faint.But she, as one abiding God's great saint,Spake not nor wept for all this travail hard.Wherefore the king commanded afterwardTo slay her presently in all men's sight.And it was now an hour upon the nightAnd winter-time, and a few stars began.The weather was yet feeble and all wanFor beating of a weighty wind and snow.And she came walking in soft wise and slow,And many men with faces piteous.Then came this heavy cursing Gabalus,That swore full hard into his drunken beard;And faintly after without any wordCame Theophile some paces off the king.And in the middle of this wayfaringFull tenderly beholding her he said:There is no word of comfort with men deadNor any face and colour of things sweet;But always with lean cheeks and lifted feetThese dead men lie all aching to the bloodWith bitter cold, their brows withouten hoodBeating for chill, their bodies swathed full thin:Alas, what hire shall any have hereinTo give his life and get such bitterness?Also the soul going forth bodilessIs hurt with naked cold, and no man saithIf there be house or covering for deathTo hide the soul that is discomforted.Then she beholding him a little said:Alas, fair lord, ye have no wit of this;For on one side death is full poor of blissAnd as ye say full sharp of bone and lean:But on the other side is good and greenAnd hath soft flower of tender-coloured hairGrown on his head, and a red mouth as fairAs may be kissed with lips; thereto his faceIs as God's face, and in a perfect placeFull of all sun and colour of straight boughsAnd waterheads about a painted houseThat hath a mile of flowers either wayOutward from it, and blossom-grass of MayThickening on many a side for length of heat,Hath God set death upon a noble seatCovered with green and flowered in the fold,In likeness of a great king grown full oldAnd gentle with new temperance of blood;And on his brows a purfled purple hood,They may not carry any golden thing;And plays some tune with subtle fingeringOn a small cithern, full of tears and sleepAnd heavy pleasure that is quick to weepAnd sorrow with the honey in her mouth;And for this might of music that he dothAre all souls drawn toward him with great loveAnd weep for sweetness of the noise thereofAnd bow to him with worship of their knees;And all the field is thick with companiesOf fair-clothed men that play on shawms and lutesAnd gather honey of the yellow fruitsBetween the branches waxen soft and wide:And all this peace endures in either sideOf the green land, and God beholdeth all.And this is girdled with a round fair wallMade of red stone and cool with heavy leavesGrown out against it, and green blossom cleavesTo the green chinks, and lesser wall-weed sweet,Kissing the crannies that are split with heat,And branches where the summer draws to head.And Theophile burnt in the cheek, and said:Yea, could one see it, this were marvellous.I pray you, at your coming to this house,Give me some leaf of all those tree-branches;Seeing how so sharp and white our weather is,There is no green nor gracious red to see.Yea, sir, she said, that shall I certainly.And from her long sweet throat without a fleckUndid the gold, and through her stretched-out neckThe cold axe clove, and smote away her head:Out of her throat the tender blood full redFell suddenly through all her long soft hair.And with good speed for hardness of the airEach man departed to his house again.Lo, as fair colour in the face of menAt seed-time of their blood, or in such wiseAs a thing seen increaseth in men's eyes,Caught first far off by sickly fits of sight,So a word said, if one shall hear aright,Abides against the season of its growth.This Theophile went slowly, as one dothThat is not sure for sickness of his feet;And counting the white stonework of the street,Tears fell out of his eyes for wrath and love,Making him weep more for the shame thereofThan for true pain: so went he half a mile.And women mocked him, saying: Theophile,Lo, she is dead; what shall a woman haveThat loveth such an one? so Christ me save,I were as lief to love a man new-hung.Surely this man has bitten on his tongue,This makes him sad and writhled in his face.And when they came upon the paven placeThat was called sometime the place amorousThere came a child before TheophilusBearing a basket, and said suddenly:Fair sir, this is my mistress DorothyThat sends you gifts; and with this he was gone.In all this earth there is not such an oneFor colour and straight stature made so fair.The tender growing gold of his pure hairWas as wheat growing, and his mouth as flame.God called him Holy after his own name;With gold cloth like fire burning he was clad.But for the fair green basket that he had,It was filled up with heavy white and red;Great roses stained still where the first rose bled,Burning at heart for shame their heart withholds:And the sad colour of strong marigoldsThat have the sun to kiss their lips for love;The flower that Venus' hair is woven of,The colour of fair apples in the sun,Late peaches gathered when the heat was doneAnd the slain air got breath; and after theseThe fair faint-headed poppies drunk with ease,And heaviness of hollow lilies red.Then cried they all that saw these things, and saidIt was God's doing, and was marvellous.And in brief while this knight TheophilusIs waxen full of faith, and witnessethBefore the king of God and love and death,For which the king bade hang him presently.A gallows of a goodly piece of treeThis Gabalus hath made to hang him on.Forth of this world lo Theophile is goneWith a wried neck, God give us better fareThan his that hath a twisted throat to wear;But truly for his love God hath him broughtThere where his heavy body grieves him noughtNor all the people plucking at his feet;But in his face his lady's face is sweet,And through his lips her kissing lips are gone:God send him peace, and joy of such an one.This is the story of St. Dorothy.I will you of your mercy pray for meBecause I wrote these sayings for your grace,That I may one day see her in the face.
It hath been seen and yet it shall be seenThat out of tender mouths God's praise hath beenMade perfect, and with wood and simple stringHe hath played music sweet as shawm-playingTo please himself with softness of all sound;And no small thing but hath been sometime foundFull sweet of use, and no such humblenessBut God hath bruised withal the sentencesAnd evidence of wise men witnessing;No leaf that is so soft a hidden thingIt never shall get sight of the great sun;The strength of ten has been the strength of one,And lowliness has waxed imperious.There was in Rome a man TheophilusOf right great blood and gracious ways, that hadAll noble fashions to make people gladAnd a soft life of pleasurable days;He was a goodly man for one to praise,Flawless and whole upward from foot to head;His arms were a red hawk that alway fedOn a small bird with feathers gnawed upon,Beaten and plucked about the bosom-boneWhereby a small round fleck like fire there was:They called it in their tongue lampadias;This was the banner of the lordly man.In many straits of sea and reaches wanFull of quick wind, and many a shaken firth,It had seen fighting days of either earth,Westward or east of waters Gaditane(This was the place of sea-rocks under SpainCalled after the great praise of Hercules)And north beyond the washing Pontic seas,Far windy Russian places fabulous,And salt fierce tides of storm-swoln Bosphorus.Now as this lord came straying in Rome townHe saw a little lattice open downAnd after it a press of maidens' headsThat sat upon their cold small quiet bedsTalking, and played upon short-stringèd lutes;And other some ground perfume out of rootsGathered by marvellous moons in Asia;Saffron and aloes and wild cassia,Coloured all through and smelling of the sun;And over all these was a certain oneClothed softly, with sweet herbs about her hairAnd bosom flowerful; her face more fairThan sudden-singing April in soft lands:Eyed like a gracious bird, and in both handsShe held a psalter painted green and red.This Theophile laughed at the heart, and said,Now God so help me hither and St. Paul,As by the new time of their festivalI have good will to take this maid to wife.And herewith fell to fancies of her lifeAnd soft half-thoughts that ended suddenly.This is man's guise to please himself, when heShall not see one thing of his pleasant things,Nor with outwatch of many travailingsCome to be eased of the least pain he hathFor all his love and all his foolish wrathAnd all the heavy manner of his mind.Thus is he like a fisher fallen blindThat casts his nets across the boat awryTo strike the sea, but lo, he striketh dryAnd plucks them back all broken for his painAnd bites his beard and casts across againAnd reaching wrong slips over in the sea.So hath this man a strangled neck for fee,For all his cost he chuckles in his throat.This Theophile that little hereof woteLaid wait to hear of her what she might be:Men told him she had name of Dorothy,And was a lady of a worthy house.Thereat this knight grew inly gloriousThat he should have a love so fair of place.She was a maiden of most quiet face,Tender of speech, and had no hardihoodBut was nigh feeble of her fearful blood;Her mercy in her was so marvellousFrom her least years, that seeing her school-fellowsThat read beside her stricken with a rod,She would cry sore and say some word to GodThat he would ease her fellow of his pain.There is no touch of sun or fallen rainThat ever fell on a more gracious thing.In middle Rome there was in stone-workingThe church of Venus painted royally.The chapels of it were some two or three,In each of them her tabernacle wasAnd a wide window of six feet in glassColoured with all her works in red and gold.The altars had bright cloths and cups to holdThe wine of Venus for the services,Made out of honey and crushed wood-berriesThat shed sweet yellow through the thick wet red,That on high days was borne upon the headOf Venus' priest for any man to drink;So that in drinking he should fall to thinkOn some fair face, and in the thought thereofWorship, and such should triumph in his love.For this soft wine that did such grace and goodWas new trans-shaped and mixed with Love's own blood,That in the fighting Trojan time was bled;For which came such a woe to DiomedThat he was stifled after in hard sea.And some said that this wine-shedding should beMade of the falling of Adonis' blood,That curled upon the thorns and broken woodAnd round the gold silk shoes on Venus' feet;The taste thereof was as hot honey sweetAnd in the mouth ran soft and riotous.This was the holiness of Venus' house.It was their worship, that in August daysTwelve maidens should go through those Roman waysNaked, and having gold across their browsAnd their hair twisted in short golden rows,To minister to Venus in this wise:And twelve men chosen in their companiesTo match these maidens by the altar-stair,All in one habit, crowned upon the hair.Among these men was chosen Theophile.This knight went out and prayed a little while,Holding queen Venus by her hands and knees;I will give thee twelve royal imagesCut in glad gold, with marvels of wrought stoneFor thy sweet priests to lean and pray upon,Jasper and hyacinth and chrysopras,And the strange Asian thalamite that wasHidden twelve ages under heavy seaAmong the little sleepy pearls, to beA shrine lit over with soft candle-flameBurning all night red as hot brows of shame,So thou wilt be my lady without sin.Goddess that art all gold outside and in,Help me to serve thee in thy holy way.Thou knowest, Love, that in my bearing dayThere shone a laughter in the singing starsRound the gold-ceilèd bride-bed wherein MarsTouched thee and had thee in your kissing wise.Now therefore, sweet, kiss thou my maiden's eyesThat they may open graciously towards me;And this new fashion of thy shrine shall beAs soft with gold as thine own happy head.The goddess, that was painted with face redBetween two long green tumbled sides of sea,Stooped her neck sideways, and spake pleasantly:Thou shalt have grace as thou art thrall of mine.And with this came a savour of shed wineAnd plucked-out petals from a rose's head:And softly with slow laughs of lip she said,Thou shalt have favour all thy days of me.Then came Theophilus to Dorothy,Saying: O sweet, if one should strive or speakAgainst God's ways, he gets a beaten cheekFor all his wage and shame above all men.Therefore I have no will to turn againWhen God saith "go," lest a worse thing fall out.Then she, misdoubting lest he went aboutTo catch her wits, made answer somewhat thus:I have no will, my lord Theophilus,To speak against this worthy word of yours;Knowing how God's will in all speech endures,That save by grace there may no thing be said,Then Theophile waxed light from foot to head,And softly fell upon this answering.It is well seen you are a chosen thingTo do God service in his gracious way.I will that you make haste and holidayTo go next year upon the Venus stair,Covered none else, but crowned upon your hair,And do the service that a maiden doth.She said: but I that am Christ's maid were lothTo do this thing that hath such bitter name.Thereat his brows were beaten with sore shameAnd he came off and said no other word.Then his eyes chanced upon his banner-bird,And he fell fingering at the staff of itAnd laughed for wrath and stared between his feet,And out of a chafed heart he spake as thus:Lo how she japes at me Theophilus,Feigning herself a fool and hard to love;Yet in good time for all she boasteth ofShe shall be like a little beaten bird.And while his mouth was open in that wordHe came upon the house Janiculum,Where some went busily, and other someTalked in the gate called the gate glorious.The emperor, which was one Gabalus,Sat over all and drank chill wine alone.To whom is come Theophilus anon,And said as thus:Beau sire, Dieu vous aide.And afterward sat under him, and saidAll this thing through as ye have wholly heard.This Gabalus laughed thickly in his beard.Yea, this is righteousness and maiden rule.Truly, he said, a maid is but a fool.And japed at them as one full villainous,In a lewd wise, this heathen Gabalus,And sent his men to bind her as he bade.Thus have they taken Dorothy the maid,And haled her forth as men hale pick-purses:A little need God knows they had of this,To hale her by her maiden gentle hair.Thus went she lowly, making a soft prayer,As one who stays the sweet wine in his mouth,Murmuring with eased lips, and is most lothTo have done wholly with the sweet of it.Christ king, fair Christ, that knowest all men's witAnd all the feeble fashion of my ways,O perfect God, that from all yesterdaysAbidest whole with morrows perfected,I pray thee by thy mother's holy headThou help me to do right, that I not slip:I have no speech nor strength upon my lip,Except thou help me who art wise and sweet.Do this too for those nails that clove thy feet,Let me die maiden after many pains.Though I be least among thy handmaidens,Doubtless I shall take death more sweetly thus.Now have they brought her to King Gabalus,Who laughed in all his throat some breathing-whiles:By God, he said, if one should leap two miles,He were not pained about the sides so much.This were a soft thing for a man to touch.Shall one so chafe that hath such little bones?And shook his throat with thick and chuckled moansFor laughter that she had such holiness.What aileth thee, wilt thou do services?It were good fare to fare as Venus doth.Then said this lady with her maiden mouth,Shamefaced, and something paler in the cheek:Now, sir, albeit my wit and will to speakGive me no grace in sight of worthy men,For all my shame yet know I this again,I may not speak, nor after downlyingRise up to take delight in lute-playing,Nor sing nor sleep, nor sit and fold my hands,But my soul in some measure understandsGod's grace laid like a garment over me.For this fair God that out of strong sharp seaLifted the shapely and green-coloured land,And hath the weight of heaven in his handAs one might hold a bird, and under himThe heavy golden planets beam by beamBuilding the feasting-chambers of his house,And the large world he holdeth with his brows,And with the light of them astonishethAll place and time and face of life and deathAnd motion of the north wind and the south,And is the sound within his angel's mouthOf singing words and words of thanksgiving,And is the colour of the latter springAnd heat upon the summer and the sun,And is beginning of all things begunAnd gathers in him all things to their end,And with the fingers of his hand doth bendThe stretched-out sides of heaven like a sail,And with his breath he maketh the red paleAnd fills with blood faint faces of men dead,And with the sound between his lips are fedIron and fire and the white body of snow,And blossom of all trees in places low,And small bright herbs about the little hills,And fruit pricked softly with birds' tender bills,And flight of foam about green fields of sea,And fourfold strength of the great winds that beMoved always outward from beneath his feet,And growth of grass and growth of sheavèd wheatAnd all green flower of goodly-growing lands;And all these things he gathers with his handsAnd covers all their beauty with his wings;The same, even God that governs all these things,Hath set my feet to be upon his ways.Now therefore for no painfulness of daysI shall put off this service bound on me.Also, fair sir, ye know this certainly,How God was in his flesh full chaste and meekAnd gave his face to shame, and either cheekGave up to smiting of men tyrannous.And here with a great voice this GabalusCried out and said: By God's blood and his bones,This were good game betwixen night and nonesFor one to sit and hearken to such saws:I were as lief fall in some big beast's jawsAs hear these women's jaw-teeth clattering;By God a woman is the harder thing,One may not put a hook into her mouth.Now by St. Luke I am so sore adrouthFor all these saws I must needs drink again.But I pray God deliver all us menFrom all such noise of women and their heat.That is a noble scripture, well I weet,That likens women to an empty can;When God said that he was a full wise man,I trow no man may blame him as for that.And herewithal he drank a draught, and spat,And said: Now shall I make an end hereof.Come near all men and hearken for God's love,And ye shall hear a jest or twain, God wot.And spake as thus with mouth full thick and hot;But thou do this thou shalt be shortly slain.Lo, sir, she said, this death and all this painI take in penance of my bitter sins.Yea now, quoth Gabalus, this game begins.Lo, without sin one shall not live a span.Lo, this is she that would not look on manBetween her fingers folded in thwart wise.See how her shame hath smitten in her eyesThat was so clean she had not heard of shame.Certes, he said, by Gabalus my name,This two years back I was not so well pleased.This were good mirth for sick men to be easedAnd rise up whole and laugh at hearing of.I pray thee show us something of thy love,Since thou wast maid thy gown is waxen wide.Yea, maid I am, she said, and somewhat sighed,As one who thought upon the low fair houseWhere she sat working, with soft bended browsWatching her threads, among the school-maidens.And she thought well now God had brought her thenceShe should not come to sew her gold again.Then cried King Gabalus upon his menTo have her forth and draw her with steel gins.And as a man hag-ridden beats and grinsAnd bends his body sidelong in his bed,So wagged he with his body and knave's head,Gaping at her, and blowing with his breath.And in good time he gat an evil deathOut of his lewdness with his cursèd wives:His bones were hewn asunder as with knivesFor his misliving, certes it is said.But all the evil wrought upon this maid,It were full hard for one to handle it.For her soft blood was shed upon her feet,And all her body's colour bruised and faint.But she, as one abiding God's great saint,Spake not nor wept for all this travail hard.Wherefore the king commanded afterwardTo slay her presently in all men's sight.And it was now an hour upon the nightAnd winter-time, and a few stars began.The weather was yet feeble and all wanFor beating of a weighty wind and snow.And she came walking in soft wise and slow,And many men with faces piteous.Then came this heavy cursing Gabalus,That swore full hard into his drunken beard;And faintly after without any wordCame Theophile some paces off the king.And in the middle of this wayfaringFull tenderly beholding her he said:There is no word of comfort with men deadNor any face and colour of things sweet;But always with lean cheeks and lifted feetThese dead men lie all aching to the bloodWith bitter cold, their brows withouten hoodBeating for chill, their bodies swathed full thin:Alas, what hire shall any have hereinTo give his life and get such bitterness?Also the soul going forth bodilessIs hurt with naked cold, and no man saithIf there be house or covering for deathTo hide the soul that is discomforted.Then she beholding him a little said:Alas, fair lord, ye have no wit of this;For on one side death is full poor of blissAnd as ye say full sharp of bone and lean:But on the other side is good and greenAnd hath soft flower of tender-coloured hairGrown on his head, and a red mouth as fairAs may be kissed with lips; thereto his faceIs as God's face, and in a perfect placeFull of all sun and colour of straight boughsAnd waterheads about a painted houseThat hath a mile of flowers either wayOutward from it, and blossom-grass of MayThickening on many a side for length of heat,Hath God set death upon a noble seatCovered with green and flowered in the fold,In likeness of a great king grown full oldAnd gentle with new temperance of blood;And on his brows a purfled purple hood,They may not carry any golden thing;And plays some tune with subtle fingeringOn a small cithern, full of tears and sleepAnd heavy pleasure that is quick to weepAnd sorrow with the honey in her mouth;And for this might of music that he dothAre all souls drawn toward him with great loveAnd weep for sweetness of the noise thereofAnd bow to him with worship of their knees;And all the field is thick with companiesOf fair-clothed men that play on shawms and lutesAnd gather honey of the yellow fruitsBetween the branches waxen soft and wide:And all this peace endures in either sideOf the green land, and God beholdeth all.And this is girdled with a round fair wallMade of red stone and cool with heavy leavesGrown out against it, and green blossom cleavesTo the green chinks, and lesser wall-weed sweet,Kissing the crannies that are split with heat,And branches where the summer draws to head.And Theophile burnt in the cheek, and said:Yea, could one see it, this were marvellous.I pray you, at your coming to this house,Give me some leaf of all those tree-branches;Seeing how so sharp and white our weather is,There is no green nor gracious red to see.Yea, sir, she said, that shall I certainly.And from her long sweet throat without a fleckUndid the gold, and through her stretched-out neckThe cold axe clove, and smote away her head:Out of her throat the tender blood full redFell suddenly through all her long soft hair.And with good speed for hardness of the airEach man departed to his house again.Lo, as fair colour in the face of menAt seed-time of their blood, or in such wiseAs a thing seen increaseth in men's eyes,Caught first far off by sickly fits of sight,So a word said, if one shall hear aright,Abides against the season of its growth.This Theophile went slowly, as one dothThat is not sure for sickness of his feet;And counting the white stonework of the street,Tears fell out of his eyes for wrath and love,Making him weep more for the shame thereofThan for true pain: so went he half a mile.And women mocked him, saying: Theophile,Lo, she is dead; what shall a woman haveThat loveth such an one? so Christ me save,I were as lief to love a man new-hung.Surely this man has bitten on his tongue,This makes him sad and writhled in his face.And when they came upon the paven placeThat was called sometime the place amorousThere came a child before TheophilusBearing a basket, and said suddenly:Fair sir, this is my mistress DorothyThat sends you gifts; and with this he was gone.In all this earth there is not such an oneFor colour and straight stature made so fair.The tender growing gold of his pure hairWas as wheat growing, and his mouth as flame.God called him Holy after his own name;With gold cloth like fire burning he was clad.But for the fair green basket that he had,It was filled up with heavy white and red;Great roses stained still where the first rose bled,Burning at heart for shame their heart withholds:And the sad colour of strong marigoldsThat have the sun to kiss their lips for love;The flower that Venus' hair is woven of,The colour of fair apples in the sun,Late peaches gathered when the heat was doneAnd the slain air got breath; and after theseThe fair faint-headed poppies drunk with ease,And heaviness of hollow lilies red.Then cried they all that saw these things, and saidIt was God's doing, and was marvellous.And in brief while this knight TheophilusIs waxen full of faith, and witnessethBefore the king of God and love and death,For which the king bade hang him presently.A gallows of a goodly piece of treeThis Gabalus hath made to hang him on.Forth of this world lo Theophile is goneWith a wried neck, God give us better fareThan his that hath a twisted throat to wear;But truly for his love God hath him broughtThere where his heavy body grieves him noughtNor all the people plucking at his feet;But in his face his lady's face is sweet,And through his lips her kissing lips are gone:God send him peace, and joy of such an one.This is the story of St. Dorothy.I will you of your mercy pray for meBecause I wrote these sayings for your grace,That I may one day see her in the face.
I will that if I say a heavy thingYour tongues forgive me; seeing ye know that springHas flecks and fits of pain to keep her sweet,And walks somewhile with winter-bitten feet.Moreover it sounds often well to letOne string, when ye play music, keep at fretThe whole song through; one petal that is deadConfirms the roses, be they white or red;Dead sorrow is not sorrowful to hearAs the thick noise that breaks mid weeping were;The sick sound aching in a lifted throatTurns to sharp silver of a perfect note;And though the rain falls often, and with rainLate autumn falls on the old red leaves like pain,I deem that God is not disquieted.Also while men are fed with wine and bread,They shall be fed with sorrow at his hand.There grew a rose-garden in Florence landMore fair than many; all red summers throughThe leaves smelt sweet and sharp of rain, and blewSideways with tender wind; and therein fellSweet sound wherewith the green waxed audible,As a bird's will to sing disturbed his throatAnd set the sharp wings forward like a boatPushed through soft water, moving his brown sideSmooth-shapen as a maid's, and shook with prideHis deep warm bosom, till the heavy sun'sSet face of heat stopped all the songs at once.The ways were clean to walk and delicate;And when the windy white of March grew late,Before the trees took heart to face the sunWith ravelled raiment of lean winter on,The roots were thick and hot with hollow grass.Some roods away a lordly house there was,Cool with broad courts and latticed passage wetFrom rush-flowers and lilies ripe to set,Sown close among the strewings of the floor;And either wall of the slow corridorWas dim with deep device of gracious things;Some angel's steady mouth and weight of wingsShut to the side; or Peter with straight stoleAnd beard cut black against the aureoleThat spanned his head from nape to crown; therebyMary's gold hair, thick to the girdle-tieWherein was bound a child with tender feet;Or the broad cross with blood nigh brown on it.Within this house a righteous lord abode,Ser Averardo; patient of his mood,And just of judgment; and to child he hadA maid so sweet that her mere sight made gladMen sorrowing, and unbound the brows of hate;And where she came, the lips that pain made straitWaxed warm and wide, and from untender grewTender as those that sleep brings patience to.Such long locks had she, that with knee to chinShe might have wrapped and warmed her feet therein.Right seldom fell her face on weeping wise;Gold hair she had, and golden-coloured eyes,Filled with clear light and fire and large reposeLike a fair hound's; no man there is but knowsHer face was white, and thereto she was tall;In no wise lacked there any praise at allTo her most perfect and pure maidenhood;No sin I think there was in all her blood.She, where a gold grate shut the roses in,Dwelt daily through deep summer weeks, through greenFlushed hours of rain upon the leaves; and thereLove made him room and space to worship herWith tender worship of bowed knees, and wroughtSuch pleasure as the pained sense palates notFor weariness, but at one taste undoesThe heart of its strong sweet, is ravenousOf all the hidden honey; words and senseFail through the tune's imperious prevalence.In a poor house this lover kept apart,Long communing with patience next his heartIf love of his might move that face at all,Tuned evenwise with colours musical;Then after length of days he said thus: "Love,For love's own sake and for the love thereofLet no harsh words untune your gracious mood;For good it were, if anything be good,To comfort me in this pain's plague of mine;Seeing thus, how neither sleep nor bread nor wineSeems pleasant to me, yea no thing that isSeems pleasant to me; only I know this,Love's ways are sharp for palms of piteous feetTo travel, but the end of such is sweet:Now do with me as seemeth you the best."She mused a little, as one holds his guestBy the hand musing, with her face borne down:Then said: "Yea, though such bitter seed be sown,Have no more care of all that you have said;Since if there is no sleep will bind your head,Lo, I am fain to help you certainly;Christ knoweth, sir, if I would have you die;There is no pleasure when a man is dead."Thereat he kissed her hands and yellow headAnd clipped her fair long body many times;I have no wit to shape in written rhymesA scanted tithe of this great joy they had.They were too near love's secret to be glad;As whoso deems the core will surely meltFrom the warm fruit his lips caress, hath feltSome bitter kernel where the teeth shut hard:Or as sweet music sharpens afterward,Being half disrelished both for sharp and sweet;As sea-water, having killed over-heatIn a man's body, chills it with faint ache;So their sense, burdened only for love's sake,Failed for pure love; yet so time served their wit,They saved each day some gold reserves of it,Being wiser in love's riddle than such beWhom fragments feed with his chance charity.All things felt sweet were felt sweet overmuch;The rose-thorn's prickle dangerous to touch,And flecks of fire in the thin leaf-shadows;Too keen the breathed honey of the rose,Its red too harsh a weight on feasted eyes;They were so far gone in love's histories,Beyond all shape and colour and mere breath,Where pleasure has for kinsfolk sleep and death,And strength of soul and body waxen blindFor weariness, and flesh entailed with mind,When the keen edge of sense foretasteth sin.Even this green place the summer caught them inSeemed half deflowered and sick with beaten leavesIn their strayed eyes; these gold flower-fumèd evesBurnt out to make the sun's love-offering,The midnoon's prayer, the rose's thanksgiving,The trees' weight burdening the strengthless air,The shape of her stilled eyes, her coloured hair,Her body's balance from the moving feet—All this, found fair, lacked yet one grain of sweetIt had some warm weeks back: so perishethOn May's new lip the tender April breath:So those same walks the wind sowed lilies inAll April through, and all their latter kinOf languid leaves whereon the Autumn blows—The dead red raiment of the last year's rose—The last year's laurel, and the last year's love,Fade, and grow things that death grows weary of.What man will gather in red summer-timeThe fruit of some obscure and hoary rhymeHeard last midwinter, taste the heart in it,Mould the smooth semitones afresh, refitThe fair limbs ruined, flush the dead blood throughWith colour, make all broken beauties newFor love's new lesson—shall not such find painWhen the marred music labouring in his brainFrets him with sweet sharp fragments, and lets slipOne word that might leave satisfied his lip—One touch that might put fire in all the chords?This was her pain: to miss from all sweet wordsSome taste of sound, diverse and delicate—Some speech the old love found out to compensateFor seasons of shut lips and drowsiness—Some grace, some word the old love found out to blessPassionless months and undelighted weeks.The flowers had lost their summer-scented cheeks,Their lips were no more sweet than daily breath:The year was plagued with instances of death.So fell it, these were sitting in cool grassWith leaves about, and many a bird there wasWhere the green shadow thickliest impleachedSoft fruit and writhen spray and blossom bleachedDry in the sun or washed with rains to white:Her girdle was pure silk, the bosom brightWith purple as purple water and gold wrought in.One branch had touched with dusk her lips and chin,Made violet of the throat, abashed with shadeThe breast's bright plaited work: but nothing frayedThe sun's large kiss on the luxurious hair.Her beauty was new colour to the airAnd music to the silent many birds.Love was an-hungred for some perfect wordsTo praise her with; but only her low name"Andrevuola" came thrice, and thrice put shameIn her clear cheek, so fruitful with new redThat for pure love straightway shame's self was dead.Then with lids gathered as who late had weptShe began saying: "I have so little sleptMy lids drowse now against the very sun;Yea, the brain aching with a dream begunBeats like a fitful blood; kiss but both brows,And you shall pluck my thoughts grown dangerousAlmost away." He said thus, kissing them:"O sole sweet thing that God is glad to name,My one gold gift, if dreams be sharp and soreShall not the waking time increase much moreWith taste and sound, sweet eyesight or sweet scent?Has any heat too hard and insolentBurnt bare the tender married leaves, undoneThe maiden grass shut under from the sun?Where in this world is room enough for pain?"The feverish finger of love had touched againHer lips with happier blood; the pain lay meekIn her fair face, nor altered lip nor cheekWith pallor or with pulse; but in her mouthLove thirsted as a man wayfaring doth,Making it humble as weak hunger is.She lay close to him, bade do this and this,Say that, sing thus: then almost weeping-ripeCrouched, then laughed low. As one that fain would wipeThe old record out of old things done and dead,She rose, she heaved her hands up, and waxed redFor wilful heart and blameless fear of blame;Saying "Though my wits be weak, this is no shameFor a poor maid whom love so punishethWith heats of hesitation and stopped breathThat with my dreams I live yet heavilyFor pure sad heart and faith's humility.Now be not wroth and I will show you this."Methought our lips upon their second kissMet in this place, and a fair day we hadAnd fair soft leaves that waxed and were not sadWith shaken rain or bitten through with drouth;When I, beholding ever how your mouthWaited for mine, the throat being fallen back,Saw crawl thereout a live thing flaked with blackSpecks of brute slime and leper-coloured scale,A devil's hide with foul flame-writhen grailFashioned where hell's heat festers loathsomest;And that brief speech may ease me of the rest,Thus were you slain and eaten of the thing.My waked eyes felt the new day shudderingOn their low lids, felt the whole east so beat,Pant with close pulse of such a plague-struck heat,As if the palpitating dawn drew breathFor horror, breathing between life and death,Till the sun sprang blood-bright and violent."So finishing, her soft strength wholly spent,She gazed each way, lest some brute-hoovèd thing,The timeless travail of hell's childbearing,Should threat upon the sudden: whereat he,For relish of her tasted miseryAnd tender little thornprick of her pain,Laughed with mere love. What lover among menBut hath his sense fed sovereignly 'twixt whilesWith tears and covered eyelids and sick smilesAnd soft disaster of a painèd face?What pain, established in so sweet a place,But the plucked leaf of it smells fragrantly?What colour burning man's wide-open eyeBut may be pleasurably seen? what senseKeeps in its hot sharp extreme violenceNo savour of sweet things? The bereaved bloodAnd emptied flesh in their most broken moodFail not so wholly, famish not when thusPast honey keeps the starved lip covetous.Therefore this speech from a glad mouth began,Breathed in her tender hair and temples wanLike one prolonged kiss while the lips had breath."Sleep, that abides in vassalage of deathAnd in death's service wears out half his age,Hath his dreams full of deadly vassalage,Shadow and sound of things ungracious;Fair shallow faces, hooded bloodless brows,And mouths past kissing; yea, myself have hadAs harsh a dream as holds your eyelids sad."This dream I tell you came three nights ago;In full mid sleep I took a whim to knowHow sweet things might be; so I turned and thought;But save my dream all sweet availed me not.First came a smell of pounded spice and scentSuch as God ripens in some continentOf utmost amber in the Syrian sea;And breaths as though some costly rose could beSpoiled slowly, wasted by some bitter fireTo burn the sweet out leaf by leaf, and tireThe flower's poor heart with heat and waste, to makeStrong magic for some perfumed woman's sake.Then a cool naked sense beneath my feetOf bud and blossom; and sound of veins that beatAs if a lute should play of its own heartAnd fearfully, not smitten of either part;And all my blood it filled with sharp and sweetAs gold swoln grain fills out the huskèd wheat;So I rose naked from the bed, and stoodCounting the mobile measure in my bloodSome pleasant while, and through each limb there cameSwift little pleasures pungent as a flame,Felt in the thrilling flesh and veins as muchAs the outer curls that feel the comb's first touchThrill to the roots and shiver as from fire;And blind between my dream and my desireI seemed to stand and held my spirit stillLest this should cease. A child whose fingers spillHoney from cells forgotten of the beeIs less afraid to stir the hive and seeSome wasp's bright back inside, than I to feelSome finger-touch disturb the flesh like steel.I prayed thus; Let me catch a secret hereSo sweet, it sharpens the sweet taste of fearAnd takes the mouth with edge of wine; I wouldHave here some colour and smooth shape as goodAs those in heaven whom the chief garden hidesWith low grape-blossom veiling their white sidesAnd lesser tendrils that so bind and blindTheir eyes and feet, that if one come behindTo touch their hair they see not, neither fly;This would I see in heaven and not die.So praying, I had nigh cried out and knelt,So wholly my prayer filled me: till I feltIn the dumb night's warm weight of glowing gloomSomewhat that altered all my sleeping-room,And made it like a green low place whereinMaids mix to bathe: one sets her small warm chinAgainst a ripple, that the angry pearlMay flow like flame about her: the next curlDips in some eddy coloured of the sunTo wash the dust well out; another oneHolds a straight ankle in her hand and swingsWith lavish body sidelong, so that ringsOf sweet fierce water, swollen and splendid, failAll round her fine and floated body pale,Swayed flower-fashion, and her balanced sideSwerved edgeways lets the weight of water slide,As taken in some underflow of seaSwerves the banked gold of sea-flowers; but shePulls down some branch to keep her perfect headClear of the river: even from wall to bed,I tell you, was my room transfigured so.Sweet, green and warm it was, nor could one knowIf there were walls or leaves, or if there wasNo bed's green curtain, but mere gentle grass.There were set also hard against the feetGold plates with honey and green grapes to eat,With the cool water's noise to hear in rhymes:And a wind warmed me full of furze and limesAnd all hot sweets the heavy summer fillsTo the round brim of smooth cup-shapen hills.Next the grave walking of a woman's feetMade my veins hesitate, and gracious heatMade thick the lids and leaden on mine eyes:And I thought ever, surely it were wiseNot yet to see her: this may last (who knows?)Five minutes; the poor rose is twice a roseBecause it turns a face to her, the windSings that way; hath this woman ever sinned,I wonder? as a boy with apple-rind,I played with pleasures, made them to my mind,Changed each ere tasting. When she came indeed,First her hair touched me, then I grew to feedOn the sense of her hand; her mouth at lastTouched me between the cheek and lip and pastOver my face with kisses here and thereSown in and out across the eyes and hair.Still I said nothing; till she set her faceMore close and harder on the kissing-place,And her mouth caught like a snake's mouth, and stungSo faint and tenderly, the fang scarce clungMore than a bird's foot: yet a wound it grew,A great one, let this red mark witness youUnder the left breast; and the stroke thereofSo clove my sense that I woke out of loveAnd knew not what this dream was nor had wit;But now God knows if I have skill of it."Hereat she laid one palm against her lipsTo stop their trembling; as when water slipsOut of a beak-mouthed vessel with faint noiseAnd chuckles in the narrowed throat and cloysThe carven rims with murmuring, so cameWords in her lips with no word right of them,A beaten speech thick and disconsolate,Till his smile ceasing waxed compassionateOf her sore fear that grew from anything—The sound of the strong summer thickeningIn heated leaves of the smooth apple-trees:The day's breath felt about the ash-branches,And noises of the noon whose weight still grewOn the hot heavy-headed flowers, and drewTheir red mouths open till the rose-heart ached;For eastward all the crowding rose was slakedAnd soothed with shade: but westward all its growthSeemed to breathe hard with heat as a man dothWho feels his temples newly feverous.And even with such motion in her browsAs that man hath in whom sick days begin,She turned her throat and spake, her voice being thinAs a sick man's, sudden and tremulous;"Sweet, if this end be come indeed on us,Let us love more;" and held his mouth with hers.As the first sound of flooded hill-watersIs heard by people of the meadow-grass,Or ever a wandering waif of ruin passWith whirling stones and foam of the brown streamFlaked with fierce yellow: so beholding himShe felt before tears came her eyelids wet,Saw the face deadly thin where life was yet,Heard his throat's harsh last moan before it clomb:And he, with close mouth passionate and dumb,Burned at her lips: so lay they without speech,Each grasping other, and the eyes of eachFed in the other's face: till suddenlyHe cried out with a little broken cryThis word, "O help me, sweet, I am but dead."And even so saying, the colour of fair redWas gone out of his face, and his blood's beatFell, and stark death made sharp his upward feetAnd pointed hands; and without moan he died.Pain smote her sudden in the brows and side,Strained her lips open and made burn her eyes:For the pure sharpness of her miseriesShe had no heart's pain, but mere body's wrack;But at the last her beaten blood drew backSlowly upon her face, and her stunned browsSuddenly grown aware and piteousGathered themselves, her eyes shone, her hard breathCame as though one nigh dead came back from death;Her lips throbbed, and life trembled through her hair.And in brief while she thought to bury thereThe dead man that her love might lie with himIn a sweet bed under the rose-roots dimAnd soft earth round the branchèd apple-trees,Full of hushed heat and heavy with great ease,And no man entering divide him thence.Wherefore she bade one of her handmaidensTo be her help to do upon this wise.And saying so the tears out of her eyesFell without noise and comforted her heart:Yea, her great pain eased of the sorest partBegan to soften in her sense of it.There under all the little branches sweetThe place was shapen of his burial;They shed thereon no thing funereal,But coloured leaves of latter rose-blossom,Stems of soft grass, some withered red and someFair and fresh-blooded; and spoil splendiderOf marigold and great spent sunflower.And afterward she came back without wordTo her own house; two days went, and the thirdWent, and she showed her father of this thing.And for great grief of her soul's travailingHe gave consent she should endure in peaceTill her life's end; yea, till her time should cease,She should abide in fellowship of pain.And having lived a holy year or twainShe died of pure waste heart and weariness.And for love's honour in her love's distressThis word was written over her tomb's head;"Here dead she lieth, for whose sake Love is dead."
I will that if I say a heavy thingYour tongues forgive me; seeing ye know that springHas flecks and fits of pain to keep her sweet,And walks somewhile with winter-bitten feet.Moreover it sounds often well to letOne string, when ye play music, keep at fretThe whole song through; one petal that is deadConfirms the roses, be they white or red;Dead sorrow is not sorrowful to hearAs the thick noise that breaks mid weeping were;The sick sound aching in a lifted throatTurns to sharp silver of a perfect note;And though the rain falls often, and with rainLate autumn falls on the old red leaves like pain,I deem that God is not disquieted.Also while men are fed with wine and bread,They shall be fed with sorrow at his hand.There grew a rose-garden in Florence landMore fair than many; all red summers throughThe leaves smelt sweet and sharp of rain, and blewSideways with tender wind; and therein fellSweet sound wherewith the green waxed audible,As a bird's will to sing disturbed his throatAnd set the sharp wings forward like a boatPushed through soft water, moving his brown sideSmooth-shapen as a maid's, and shook with prideHis deep warm bosom, till the heavy sun'sSet face of heat stopped all the songs at once.The ways were clean to walk and delicate;And when the windy white of March grew late,Before the trees took heart to face the sunWith ravelled raiment of lean winter on,The roots were thick and hot with hollow grass.Some roods away a lordly house there was,Cool with broad courts and latticed passage wetFrom rush-flowers and lilies ripe to set,Sown close among the strewings of the floor;And either wall of the slow corridorWas dim with deep device of gracious things;Some angel's steady mouth and weight of wingsShut to the side; or Peter with straight stoleAnd beard cut black against the aureoleThat spanned his head from nape to crown; therebyMary's gold hair, thick to the girdle-tieWherein was bound a child with tender feet;Or the broad cross with blood nigh brown on it.Within this house a righteous lord abode,Ser Averardo; patient of his mood,And just of judgment; and to child he hadA maid so sweet that her mere sight made gladMen sorrowing, and unbound the brows of hate;And where she came, the lips that pain made straitWaxed warm and wide, and from untender grewTender as those that sleep brings patience to.Such long locks had she, that with knee to chinShe might have wrapped and warmed her feet therein.Right seldom fell her face on weeping wise;Gold hair she had, and golden-coloured eyes,Filled with clear light and fire and large reposeLike a fair hound's; no man there is but knowsHer face was white, and thereto she was tall;In no wise lacked there any praise at allTo her most perfect and pure maidenhood;No sin I think there was in all her blood.She, where a gold grate shut the roses in,Dwelt daily through deep summer weeks, through greenFlushed hours of rain upon the leaves; and thereLove made him room and space to worship herWith tender worship of bowed knees, and wroughtSuch pleasure as the pained sense palates notFor weariness, but at one taste undoesThe heart of its strong sweet, is ravenousOf all the hidden honey; words and senseFail through the tune's imperious prevalence.In a poor house this lover kept apart,Long communing with patience next his heartIf love of his might move that face at all,Tuned evenwise with colours musical;Then after length of days he said thus: "Love,For love's own sake and for the love thereofLet no harsh words untune your gracious mood;For good it were, if anything be good,To comfort me in this pain's plague of mine;Seeing thus, how neither sleep nor bread nor wineSeems pleasant to me, yea no thing that isSeems pleasant to me; only I know this,Love's ways are sharp for palms of piteous feetTo travel, but the end of such is sweet:Now do with me as seemeth you the best."She mused a little, as one holds his guestBy the hand musing, with her face borne down:Then said: "Yea, though such bitter seed be sown,Have no more care of all that you have said;Since if there is no sleep will bind your head,Lo, I am fain to help you certainly;Christ knoweth, sir, if I would have you die;There is no pleasure when a man is dead."Thereat he kissed her hands and yellow headAnd clipped her fair long body many times;I have no wit to shape in written rhymesA scanted tithe of this great joy they had.They were too near love's secret to be glad;As whoso deems the core will surely meltFrom the warm fruit his lips caress, hath feltSome bitter kernel where the teeth shut hard:Or as sweet music sharpens afterward,Being half disrelished both for sharp and sweet;As sea-water, having killed over-heatIn a man's body, chills it with faint ache;So their sense, burdened only for love's sake,Failed for pure love; yet so time served their wit,They saved each day some gold reserves of it,Being wiser in love's riddle than such beWhom fragments feed with his chance charity.All things felt sweet were felt sweet overmuch;The rose-thorn's prickle dangerous to touch,And flecks of fire in the thin leaf-shadows;Too keen the breathed honey of the rose,Its red too harsh a weight on feasted eyes;They were so far gone in love's histories,Beyond all shape and colour and mere breath,Where pleasure has for kinsfolk sleep and death,And strength of soul and body waxen blindFor weariness, and flesh entailed with mind,When the keen edge of sense foretasteth sin.Even this green place the summer caught them inSeemed half deflowered and sick with beaten leavesIn their strayed eyes; these gold flower-fumèd evesBurnt out to make the sun's love-offering,The midnoon's prayer, the rose's thanksgiving,The trees' weight burdening the strengthless air,The shape of her stilled eyes, her coloured hair,Her body's balance from the moving feet—All this, found fair, lacked yet one grain of sweetIt had some warm weeks back: so perishethOn May's new lip the tender April breath:So those same walks the wind sowed lilies inAll April through, and all their latter kinOf languid leaves whereon the Autumn blows—The dead red raiment of the last year's rose—The last year's laurel, and the last year's love,Fade, and grow things that death grows weary of.What man will gather in red summer-timeThe fruit of some obscure and hoary rhymeHeard last midwinter, taste the heart in it,Mould the smooth semitones afresh, refitThe fair limbs ruined, flush the dead blood throughWith colour, make all broken beauties newFor love's new lesson—shall not such find painWhen the marred music labouring in his brainFrets him with sweet sharp fragments, and lets slipOne word that might leave satisfied his lip—One touch that might put fire in all the chords?This was her pain: to miss from all sweet wordsSome taste of sound, diverse and delicate—Some speech the old love found out to compensateFor seasons of shut lips and drowsiness—Some grace, some word the old love found out to blessPassionless months and undelighted weeks.The flowers had lost their summer-scented cheeks,Their lips were no more sweet than daily breath:The year was plagued with instances of death.So fell it, these were sitting in cool grassWith leaves about, and many a bird there wasWhere the green shadow thickliest impleachedSoft fruit and writhen spray and blossom bleachedDry in the sun or washed with rains to white:Her girdle was pure silk, the bosom brightWith purple as purple water and gold wrought in.One branch had touched with dusk her lips and chin,Made violet of the throat, abashed with shadeThe breast's bright plaited work: but nothing frayedThe sun's large kiss on the luxurious hair.Her beauty was new colour to the airAnd music to the silent many birds.Love was an-hungred for some perfect wordsTo praise her with; but only her low name"Andrevuola" came thrice, and thrice put shameIn her clear cheek, so fruitful with new redThat for pure love straightway shame's self was dead.Then with lids gathered as who late had weptShe began saying: "I have so little sleptMy lids drowse now against the very sun;Yea, the brain aching with a dream begunBeats like a fitful blood; kiss but both brows,And you shall pluck my thoughts grown dangerousAlmost away." He said thus, kissing them:"O sole sweet thing that God is glad to name,My one gold gift, if dreams be sharp and soreShall not the waking time increase much moreWith taste and sound, sweet eyesight or sweet scent?Has any heat too hard and insolentBurnt bare the tender married leaves, undoneThe maiden grass shut under from the sun?Where in this world is room enough for pain?"The feverish finger of love had touched againHer lips with happier blood; the pain lay meekIn her fair face, nor altered lip nor cheekWith pallor or with pulse; but in her mouthLove thirsted as a man wayfaring doth,Making it humble as weak hunger is.She lay close to him, bade do this and this,Say that, sing thus: then almost weeping-ripeCrouched, then laughed low. As one that fain would wipeThe old record out of old things done and dead,She rose, she heaved her hands up, and waxed redFor wilful heart and blameless fear of blame;Saying "Though my wits be weak, this is no shameFor a poor maid whom love so punishethWith heats of hesitation and stopped breathThat with my dreams I live yet heavilyFor pure sad heart and faith's humility.Now be not wroth and I will show you this."Methought our lips upon their second kissMet in this place, and a fair day we hadAnd fair soft leaves that waxed and were not sadWith shaken rain or bitten through with drouth;When I, beholding ever how your mouthWaited for mine, the throat being fallen back,Saw crawl thereout a live thing flaked with blackSpecks of brute slime and leper-coloured scale,A devil's hide with foul flame-writhen grailFashioned where hell's heat festers loathsomest;And that brief speech may ease me of the rest,Thus were you slain and eaten of the thing.My waked eyes felt the new day shudderingOn their low lids, felt the whole east so beat,Pant with close pulse of such a plague-struck heat,As if the palpitating dawn drew breathFor horror, breathing between life and death,Till the sun sprang blood-bright and violent."So finishing, her soft strength wholly spent,She gazed each way, lest some brute-hoovèd thing,The timeless travail of hell's childbearing,Should threat upon the sudden: whereat he,For relish of her tasted miseryAnd tender little thornprick of her pain,Laughed with mere love. What lover among menBut hath his sense fed sovereignly 'twixt whilesWith tears and covered eyelids and sick smilesAnd soft disaster of a painèd face?What pain, established in so sweet a place,But the plucked leaf of it smells fragrantly?What colour burning man's wide-open eyeBut may be pleasurably seen? what senseKeeps in its hot sharp extreme violenceNo savour of sweet things? The bereaved bloodAnd emptied flesh in their most broken moodFail not so wholly, famish not when thusPast honey keeps the starved lip covetous.Therefore this speech from a glad mouth began,Breathed in her tender hair and temples wanLike one prolonged kiss while the lips had breath."Sleep, that abides in vassalage of deathAnd in death's service wears out half his age,Hath his dreams full of deadly vassalage,Shadow and sound of things ungracious;Fair shallow faces, hooded bloodless brows,And mouths past kissing; yea, myself have hadAs harsh a dream as holds your eyelids sad."This dream I tell you came three nights ago;In full mid sleep I took a whim to knowHow sweet things might be; so I turned and thought;But save my dream all sweet availed me not.First came a smell of pounded spice and scentSuch as God ripens in some continentOf utmost amber in the Syrian sea;And breaths as though some costly rose could beSpoiled slowly, wasted by some bitter fireTo burn the sweet out leaf by leaf, and tireThe flower's poor heart with heat and waste, to makeStrong magic for some perfumed woman's sake.Then a cool naked sense beneath my feetOf bud and blossom; and sound of veins that beatAs if a lute should play of its own heartAnd fearfully, not smitten of either part;And all my blood it filled with sharp and sweetAs gold swoln grain fills out the huskèd wheat;So I rose naked from the bed, and stoodCounting the mobile measure in my bloodSome pleasant while, and through each limb there cameSwift little pleasures pungent as a flame,Felt in the thrilling flesh and veins as muchAs the outer curls that feel the comb's first touchThrill to the roots and shiver as from fire;And blind between my dream and my desireI seemed to stand and held my spirit stillLest this should cease. A child whose fingers spillHoney from cells forgotten of the beeIs less afraid to stir the hive and seeSome wasp's bright back inside, than I to feelSome finger-touch disturb the flesh like steel.I prayed thus; Let me catch a secret hereSo sweet, it sharpens the sweet taste of fearAnd takes the mouth with edge of wine; I wouldHave here some colour and smooth shape as goodAs those in heaven whom the chief garden hidesWith low grape-blossom veiling their white sidesAnd lesser tendrils that so bind and blindTheir eyes and feet, that if one come behindTo touch their hair they see not, neither fly;This would I see in heaven and not die.So praying, I had nigh cried out and knelt,So wholly my prayer filled me: till I feltIn the dumb night's warm weight of glowing gloomSomewhat that altered all my sleeping-room,And made it like a green low place whereinMaids mix to bathe: one sets her small warm chinAgainst a ripple, that the angry pearlMay flow like flame about her: the next curlDips in some eddy coloured of the sunTo wash the dust well out; another oneHolds a straight ankle in her hand and swingsWith lavish body sidelong, so that ringsOf sweet fierce water, swollen and splendid, failAll round her fine and floated body pale,Swayed flower-fashion, and her balanced sideSwerved edgeways lets the weight of water slide,As taken in some underflow of seaSwerves the banked gold of sea-flowers; but shePulls down some branch to keep her perfect headClear of the river: even from wall to bed,I tell you, was my room transfigured so.Sweet, green and warm it was, nor could one knowIf there were walls or leaves, or if there wasNo bed's green curtain, but mere gentle grass.There were set also hard against the feetGold plates with honey and green grapes to eat,With the cool water's noise to hear in rhymes:And a wind warmed me full of furze and limesAnd all hot sweets the heavy summer fillsTo the round brim of smooth cup-shapen hills.Next the grave walking of a woman's feetMade my veins hesitate, and gracious heatMade thick the lids and leaden on mine eyes:And I thought ever, surely it were wiseNot yet to see her: this may last (who knows?)Five minutes; the poor rose is twice a roseBecause it turns a face to her, the windSings that way; hath this woman ever sinned,I wonder? as a boy with apple-rind,I played with pleasures, made them to my mind,Changed each ere tasting. When she came indeed,First her hair touched me, then I grew to feedOn the sense of her hand; her mouth at lastTouched me between the cheek and lip and pastOver my face with kisses here and thereSown in and out across the eyes and hair.Still I said nothing; till she set her faceMore close and harder on the kissing-place,And her mouth caught like a snake's mouth, and stungSo faint and tenderly, the fang scarce clungMore than a bird's foot: yet a wound it grew,A great one, let this red mark witness youUnder the left breast; and the stroke thereofSo clove my sense that I woke out of loveAnd knew not what this dream was nor had wit;But now God knows if I have skill of it."Hereat she laid one palm against her lipsTo stop their trembling; as when water slipsOut of a beak-mouthed vessel with faint noiseAnd chuckles in the narrowed throat and cloysThe carven rims with murmuring, so cameWords in her lips with no word right of them,A beaten speech thick and disconsolate,Till his smile ceasing waxed compassionateOf her sore fear that grew from anything—The sound of the strong summer thickeningIn heated leaves of the smooth apple-trees:The day's breath felt about the ash-branches,And noises of the noon whose weight still grewOn the hot heavy-headed flowers, and drewTheir red mouths open till the rose-heart ached;For eastward all the crowding rose was slakedAnd soothed with shade: but westward all its growthSeemed to breathe hard with heat as a man dothWho feels his temples newly feverous.And even with such motion in her browsAs that man hath in whom sick days begin,She turned her throat and spake, her voice being thinAs a sick man's, sudden and tremulous;"Sweet, if this end be come indeed on us,Let us love more;" and held his mouth with hers.As the first sound of flooded hill-watersIs heard by people of the meadow-grass,Or ever a wandering waif of ruin passWith whirling stones and foam of the brown streamFlaked with fierce yellow: so beholding himShe felt before tears came her eyelids wet,Saw the face deadly thin where life was yet,Heard his throat's harsh last moan before it clomb:And he, with close mouth passionate and dumb,Burned at her lips: so lay they without speech,Each grasping other, and the eyes of eachFed in the other's face: till suddenlyHe cried out with a little broken cryThis word, "O help me, sweet, I am but dead."And even so saying, the colour of fair redWas gone out of his face, and his blood's beatFell, and stark death made sharp his upward feetAnd pointed hands; and without moan he died.Pain smote her sudden in the brows and side,Strained her lips open and made burn her eyes:For the pure sharpness of her miseriesShe had no heart's pain, but mere body's wrack;But at the last her beaten blood drew backSlowly upon her face, and her stunned browsSuddenly grown aware and piteousGathered themselves, her eyes shone, her hard breathCame as though one nigh dead came back from death;Her lips throbbed, and life trembled through her hair.And in brief while she thought to bury thereThe dead man that her love might lie with himIn a sweet bed under the rose-roots dimAnd soft earth round the branchèd apple-trees,Full of hushed heat and heavy with great ease,And no man entering divide him thence.Wherefore she bade one of her handmaidensTo be her help to do upon this wise.And saying so the tears out of her eyesFell without noise and comforted her heart:Yea, her great pain eased of the sorest partBegan to soften in her sense of it.There under all the little branches sweetThe place was shapen of his burial;They shed thereon no thing funereal,But coloured leaves of latter rose-blossom,Stems of soft grass, some withered red and someFair and fresh-blooded; and spoil splendiderOf marigold and great spent sunflower.And afterward she came back without wordTo her own house; two days went, and the thirdWent, and she showed her father of this thing.And for great grief of her soul's travailingHe gave consent she should endure in peaceTill her life's end; yea, till her time should cease,She should abide in fellowship of pain.And having lived a holy year or twainShe died of pure waste heart and weariness.And for love's honour in her love's distressThis word was written over her tomb's head;"Here dead she lieth, for whose sake Love is dead."