THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD

YOU must be very old, Sir Giles,I said; he said: Yea, very old!Whereat the mournfullest of smilesCreased his dry skin with many a fold.They hammer'd out my basnet pointInto a round salade, he said,The basnet being quite out of joint,Natheless the salade rasps my head.He gazed at the great fire awhile:And you are getting old, Sir John;(He said this with that cunning smileThat was most sad) we both wear on;Knights come to court and look at me,With eyebrows up; except my lord,And my dear lady, none I seeThat know the ways of my old sword.(My lady! at that word no pangStopp'd all my blood). But tell me, John,Is it quite true that Pagans hangSo thick about the east, that onThe eastern sea no Venice flagCan fly unpaid for? True, I said,And in such way the miscreants dragChrist's cross upon the ground, I dreadThat Constantine must fall this year.Within my heart, these things are small;This is not small, that things outwearI thought were made for ever, yea, all,All things go soon or late, I said.I saw the duke in court next day;Just as before, his grand great headAbove his gold robes dreaming lay,Only his face was paler; thereI saw his duchess sit by him;And she, she was changed more; her hairBefore my eyes that used to swim,And make me dizzy with great blissOnce, when I used to watch her sit,Her hair is bright still, yet it isAs though some dust were thrown on it.Her eyes are shallower, as thoughSome grey glass were behind; her browAnd cheeks the straining bones show through,Are not so good for kissing now.Her lips are drier now she isA great duke's wife these many years,They will not shudder with a kissAs once they did, being moist with tears.Also her hands have lost that wayOf clinging that they used to have;They look'd quite easy, as they layUpon the silken cushions braveWith broidery of the apples greenMy Lord Duke bears upon his shield.Her face, alas! that I have seenLook fresher than an April field,This is all gone now; gone alsoHer tender walking; when she walksShe is most queenly I well know,And she is fair still. As the stalksOf faded summer-lilies are,So is she grown now unto meThis spring-time, when the flowers starThe meadows, birds sing wonderfully.I warrant once she used to clingAbout his neck, and kiss'd him so,And then his coming step would ringJoy-bells for her; some time ago.Ah! sometimes like an idle dreamThat hinders true life overmuch,Sometimes like a lost heaven, these seem.This love is not so hard to smutch.

YOU must be very old, Sir Giles,I said; he said: Yea, very old!Whereat the mournfullest of smilesCreased his dry skin with many a fold.

They hammer'd out my basnet pointInto a round salade, he said,The basnet being quite out of joint,Natheless the salade rasps my head.

He gazed at the great fire awhile:And you are getting old, Sir John;(He said this with that cunning smileThat was most sad) we both wear on;

Knights come to court and look at me,With eyebrows up; except my lord,And my dear lady, none I seeThat know the ways of my old sword.

(My lady! at that word no pangStopp'd all my blood). But tell me, John,Is it quite true that Pagans hangSo thick about the east, that on

The eastern sea no Venice flagCan fly unpaid for? True, I said,And in such way the miscreants dragChrist's cross upon the ground, I dread

That Constantine must fall this year.Within my heart, these things are small;This is not small, that things outwearI thought were made for ever, yea, all,

All things go soon or late, I said.I saw the duke in court next day;Just as before, his grand great headAbove his gold robes dreaming lay,

Only his face was paler; thereI saw his duchess sit by him;And she, she was changed more; her hairBefore my eyes that used to swim,

And make me dizzy with great blissOnce, when I used to watch her sit,Her hair is bright still, yet it isAs though some dust were thrown on it.

Her eyes are shallower, as thoughSome grey glass were behind; her browAnd cheeks the straining bones show through,Are not so good for kissing now.

Her lips are drier now she isA great duke's wife these many years,They will not shudder with a kissAs once they did, being moist with tears.

Also her hands have lost that wayOf clinging that they used to have;They look'd quite easy, as they layUpon the silken cushions brave

With broidery of the apples greenMy Lord Duke bears upon his shield.Her face, alas! that I have seenLook fresher than an April field,

This is all gone now; gone alsoHer tender walking; when she walksShe is most queenly I well know,And she is fair still. As the stalks

Of faded summer-lilies are,So is she grown now unto meThis spring-time, when the flowers starThe meadows, birds sing wonderfully.

I warrant once she used to clingAbout his neck, and kiss'd him so,And then his coming step would ringJoy-bells for her; some time ago.

Ah! sometimes like an idle dreamThat hinders true life overmuch,Sometimes like a lost heaven, these seem.This love is not so hard to smutch.

AGOLDEN gilliflower to-dayI wore upon my helm alway,And won the prize of this tourney.Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.However well Sir Giles might sit,His sun was weak to wither it,Lord Miles's blood was dew on it:Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.Although my spear in splinters flew,From John's steel-coat, my eye was true;I wheel'd about, and cried for you,Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.Yea, do not doubt my heart was good,Though my sword flew like rotten wood,To shout, although I scarcely stood,Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.My hand was steady too, to takeMy axe from round my neck, and breakJohn's steel-coat up for my love's sake.Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.When I stood in my tent again,Arming afresh, I felt a painTake hold of me, I was so fain,Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.To hear:Honneur aux fils des preux!Right in my ears again, and shewThe gilliflower blossom'd new.Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.The Sieur Guillaume against me came,His tabard bore three points of flameFrom a red heart: with little blame,Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.Our tough spears crackled up like straw;He was the first to turn and drawHis sword, that had nor speck nor flaw;Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.But I felt weaker than a maid,And my brain, dizzied and afraid,Within my helm a fierce tune play'd,Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.Until I thought of your dear head,Bow'd to the gilliflower bed,The yellow flowers stain'd with red;Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.Crash! how the swords met:giroflée!The fierce tune in my helm would play,La belle! la belle! jaune giroflée!Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.Once more the great swords met again:"La belle! la belle!" but who fell then?Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down ten;Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.And as with mazed and unarm'd face,Toward my own crown and the Queen's place,They led me at a gentle pace.Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.I almost saw your quiet headBow'd o'er the gilliflower bed,The yellow flowers stain'd with red.Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

AGOLDEN gilliflower to-dayI wore upon my helm alway,And won the prize of this tourney.Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

However well Sir Giles might sit,His sun was weak to wither it,Lord Miles's blood was dew on it:Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Although my spear in splinters flew,From John's steel-coat, my eye was true;I wheel'd about, and cried for you,Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Yea, do not doubt my heart was good,Though my sword flew like rotten wood,To shout, although I scarcely stood,Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

My hand was steady too, to takeMy axe from round my neck, and breakJohn's steel-coat up for my love's sake.Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

When I stood in my tent again,Arming afresh, I felt a painTake hold of me, I was so fain,Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

To hear:Honneur aux fils des preux!Right in my ears again, and shewThe gilliflower blossom'd new.Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

The Sieur Guillaume against me came,His tabard bore three points of flameFrom a red heart: with little blame,Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Our tough spears crackled up like straw;He was the first to turn and drawHis sword, that had nor speck nor flaw;Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

But I felt weaker than a maid,And my brain, dizzied and afraid,Within my helm a fierce tune play'd,Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Until I thought of your dear head,Bow'd to the gilliflower bed,The yellow flowers stain'd with red;Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Crash! how the swords met:giroflée!The fierce tune in my helm would play,La belle! la belle! jaune giroflée!Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Once more the great swords met again:"La belle! la belle!" but who fell then?Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down ten;Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

And as with mazed and unarm'd face,Toward my own crown and the Queen's place,They led me at a gentle pace.Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

I almost saw your quiet headBow'd o'er the gilliflower bed,The yellow flowers stain'd with red.Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

THERE were four of us about that bed;The mass-priest knelt at the side,I and his mother stood at the head,Over his feet lay the bride;We were quite sure that he was dead,Though his eyes were open wide.He did not die in the night,He did not die in the day,But in the morning twilightHis spirit pass'd away,When neither sun nor moon was bright,And the trees were merely grey.He was not slain with the sword,Knight's axe, or the knightly spear,Yet spoke he never a wordAfter he came in here;I cut away the cordFrom the neck of my brother dear.He did not strike one blow,For the recreants came behind,In a place where the hornbeams grow,A path right hard to find,For the hornbeam boughs swing so,That the twilight makes it blind.They lighted a great torch then,When his arms were pinion'd fast,Sir John the knight of the Fen,Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast,With knights threescore and ten,Hung brave Lord Hugh at last.I am threescore and ten,And my hair is all turn'd grey,But I met Sir John of the FenLong ago on a summer day,And am glad to think of the moment whenI took his life away.I am threescore and ten,And my strength is mostly pass'd,But long ago I and my men,When the sky was overcast,And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen,Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast.And now, knights all of you,I pray you pray for Sir Hugh,A good knight and a true,And for Alice, his wife, pray too.

He did not die in the night,He did not die in the day,But in the morning twilightHis spirit pass'd away,When neither sun nor moon was bright,And the trees were merely grey.

He was not slain with the sword,Knight's axe, or the knightly spear,Yet spoke he never a wordAfter he came in here;I cut away the cordFrom the neck of my brother dear.

He did not strike one blow,For the recreants came behind,In a place where the hornbeams grow,A path right hard to find,For the hornbeam boughs swing so,That the twilight makes it blind.

They lighted a great torch then,When his arms were pinion'd fast,Sir John the knight of the Fen,Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast,With knights threescore and ten,Hung brave Lord Hugh at last.

I am threescore and ten,And my hair is all turn'd grey,But I met Sir John of the FenLong ago on a summer day,And am glad to think of the moment whenI took his life away.

I am threescore and ten,And my strength is mostly pass'd,But long ago I and my men,When the sky was overcast,And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen,Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast.

And now, knights all of you,I pray you pray for Sir Hugh,A good knight and a true,And for Alice, his wife, pray too.

GOLD on her head, and gold on her feet,And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet,And a golden girdle round my sweet;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.Margaret's maids are fair to see,Freshly dress'd and pleasantly;Margaret's hair falls down to her knee;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.If I were rich I would kiss her feet;I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet,And the golden girdle round my sweet:Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand;When the arriere-ban goes through the land,Six basnets under my pennon stand;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.And many an one grins under his hood:Sir Lambert du Bois, with all his men good,Has neither food nor firewood;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.If I were rich I would kiss her feet,And the golden girdle of my sweet,And thereabouts where the gold hems meet;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.Yet even now it is good to think,While my few poor varlets grumble and drinkIn my desolate hall, where the fires sink,Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.Of Margaret sitting glorious there,In glory of gold and glory of hair,And glory of glorious face most fair;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.Likewise to-night I make good cheer,Because this battle draweth near:For what have I to lose or fear?Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.For, look you, my horse is good to pranceA right fair measure in this war-dance,Before the eyes of Philip of France;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.And sometime it may hap, perdie,While my new towers stand up three and three,And my hall gets painted fair to see,Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.That folks may say: Times change, by the rood,For Lambert, banneret of the wood,Has heaps of food and firewood;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite;And wonderful eyes, too, under the hoodOf a damsel of right noble blood.St. Ives, for Lambert of the Wood!Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

GOLD on her head, and gold on her feet,And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet,And a golden girdle round my sweet;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

Margaret's maids are fair to see,Freshly dress'd and pleasantly;Margaret's hair falls down to her knee;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

If I were rich I would kiss her feet;I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet,And the golden girdle round my sweet:Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand;When the arriere-ban goes through the land,Six basnets under my pennon stand;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

And many an one grins under his hood:Sir Lambert du Bois, with all his men good,Has neither food nor firewood;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

If I were rich I would kiss her feet,And the golden girdle of my sweet,And thereabouts where the gold hems meet;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

Yet even now it is good to think,While my few poor varlets grumble and drinkIn my desolate hall, where the fires sink,Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

Of Margaret sitting glorious there,In glory of gold and glory of hair,And glory of glorious face most fair;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

Likewise to-night I make good cheer,Because this battle draweth near:For what have I to lose or fear?Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

For, look you, my horse is good to pranceA right fair measure in this war-dance,Before the eyes of Philip of France;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

And sometime it may hap, perdie,While my new towers stand up three and three,And my hall gets painted fair to see,Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

That folks may say: Times change, by the rood,For Lambert, banneret of the wood,Has heaps of food and firewood;Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite;

And wonderful eyes, too, under the hoodOf a damsel of right noble blood.St. Ives, for Lambert of the Wood!Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

SWERVE to the left, son Roger, he said,When you catch his eyes through the helmet-slit,Swerve to the left, then out at his head,And the Lord God give you joy of it!The blue owls on my father's hoodWere a little dimm'd as I turn'd away;This giving up of blood for bloodWill finish here somehow to-day.So, when I walk'd out from the tent,Their howling almost blinded me;Yet for all that I was not bentBy any shame. Hard by, the seaMade a noise like the aspens whereWe did that wrong, but now the placeIs very pleasant, and the airBlows cool on any passer's face.And all the wrong is gather'd nowInto the circle of these lists:Yea, howl out, butchers! tell me howHis hands were cut off at the wrists;And how Lord Roger bore his faceA league above his spear-point, highAbove the owls, to that strong placeAmong the waters; yea, yea, cry:What a brave champion we have got!Sir Oliver, the flower of allThe Hainault knights! The day being hot,He sat beneath a broad white pall,White linen over all his steel;What a good knight he look'd! his swordLaid thwart his knees; he liked to feelIts steadfast edge clear as his word.And he look'd solemn; how his loveSmiled whitely on him, sick with fear!How all the ladies up aboveTwisted their pretty hands! so nearThe fighting was: Ellayne! Ellayne!They cannot love like you can, whoWould burn your hands off, if that painCould win a kiss; am I not trueTo you for ever? therefore IDo not fear death or anything;If I should limp home wounded, why,While I lay sick you would but sing,And soothe me into quiet sleep.If they spat on the recreant knight,Threw stones at him, and cursed him deep,Why then: what then? your hand would lightSo gently on his drawn-up face,And you would kiss him, and in softCool scented clothes would lap him, paceThe quiet room and weep oft, oftWould turn and smile, and brush his cheekWith your sweet chin and mouth; and inThe order'd garden you would seekThe biggest roses: any sin.And these say: No more now my knight,Or God's knight any longer: you,Being than they so much more white,So much more pure and good and true,Will cling to me for ever; there,Is not that wrong turn'd right at lastThrough all these years, and I wash'd clean?Say, yea, Ellayne; the time is past,Since on that Christmas-day last yearUp to your feet the fire crept,And the smoke through the brown leaves sereBlinded your dear eyes that you wept;Was it not I that caught you then,And kiss'd you on the saddle-bow?Did not the blue owl mark the menWhose spears stood like the corn a-row?This Oliver is a right good knight,And must needs beat me, as I fear,Unless I catch him in the fight,My father's crafty way: John, here!Bring up the men from the south gate,To help me if I fall or win,For even if I beat, their hateWill grow to more than this mere grin.

SWERVE to the left, son Roger, he said,When you catch his eyes through the helmet-slit,Swerve to the left, then out at his head,And the Lord God give you joy of it!

The blue owls on my father's hoodWere a little dimm'd as I turn'd away;This giving up of blood for bloodWill finish here somehow to-day.

So, when I walk'd out from the tent,Their howling almost blinded me;Yet for all that I was not bentBy any shame. Hard by, the sea

Made a noise like the aspens whereWe did that wrong, but now the placeIs very pleasant, and the airBlows cool on any passer's face.

And all the wrong is gather'd nowInto the circle of these lists:Yea, howl out, butchers! tell me howHis hands were cut off at the wrists;

And how Lord Roger bore his faceA league above his spear-point, highAbove the owls, to that strong placeAmong the waters; yea, yea, cry:

What a brave champion we have got!Sir Oliver, the flower of allThe Hainault knights! The day being hot,He sat beneath a broad white pall,

White linen over all his steel;What a good knight he look'd! his swordLaid thwart his knees; he liked to feelIts steadfast edge clear as his word.

And he look'd solemn; how his loveSmiled whitely on him, sick with fear!How all the ladies up aboveTwisted their pretty hands! so near

The fighting was: Ellayne! Ellayne!They cannot love like you can, whoWould burn your hands off, if that painCould win a kiss; am I not true

To you for ever? therefore IDo not fear death or anything;If I should limp home wounded, why,While I lay sick you would but sing,

And soothe me into quiet sleep.If they spat on the recreant knight,Threw stones at him, and cursed him deep,Why then: what then? your hand would light

So gently on his drawn-up face,And you would kiss him, and in softCool scented clothes would lap him, paceThe quiet room and weep oft, oft

Would turn and smile, and brush his cheekWith your sweet chin and mouth; and inThe order'd garden you would seekThe biggest roses: any sin.

And these say: No more now my knight,Or God's knight any longer: you,Being than they so much more white,So much more pure and good and true,

Will cling to me for ever; there,Is not that wrong turn'd right at lastThrough all these years, and I wash'd clean?Say, yea, Ellayne; the time is past,

Since on that Christmas-day last yearUp to your feet the fire crept,And the smoke through the brown leaves sereBlinded your dear eyes that you wept;

Was it not I that caught you then,And kiss'd you on the saddle-bow?Did not the blue owl mark the menWhose spears stood like the corn a-row?

This Oliver is a right good knight,And must needs beat me, as I fear,Unless I catch him in the fight,My father's crafty way: John, here!

Bring up the men from the south gate,To help me if I fall or win,For even if I beat, their hateWill grow to more than this mere grin.

UP and away through the drifting rain!Let us ride to the Little Tower again,Up and away from the council board!Do on the hauberk, gird on the sword.The king is blind with gnashing his teeth,Change gilded scabbard to leather sheath:Though our arms are wet with the slanting rain,This is joy to ride to my love again:I laugh in his face when he bids me yield;Who knows one field from the other field,For the grey rain driveth all astray?Which way through the floods, good carle, I prayThe left side yet! the left side yet!Till your hand strikes on the bridge parapet.Yea so: the causeway holdeth goodUnder the water? Hard as wood,Right away to the uplands; speed, good knight!Seven hours yet before the light.Shake the wet off on the upland road;My tabard has grown a heavy load.What matter? up and down hill after hill;Dead grey night for five hours still.The hill-road droppeth lower again,Lower, down to the poplar plain.No furlong farther for us to-night,The Little Tower draweth in sight;They are ringing the bells, and the torches glare,Therefore the roofs of wet slate stare.There she stands, and her yellow hair slantinglyDrifts the same way that the rain goes by.Who will be faithful to us to-day,With little but hard glaive-strokes for pay?The grim king fumes at the council-board:Three more days, and then the sword;Three more days, and my sword through his head;And above his white brows, pale and dead,A paper crown on the top of the spire;And for her the stake and the witches' fire.Therefore though it be long ere day,Take axe and pick and spade, I pray.Break the dams down all over the plain:God send us three more days such rain!Block all the upland roads with trees;The Little Tower with no great easeIs won, I warrant; bid them bringMuch sheep and oxen, everythingThe spits are wont to turn with; wineAnd wheaten bread, that we may dineIn plenty each day of the siege.Good friends, ye know me no hard liege;My lady is right fair, see ye!Pray God to keep you frank and free.Love Isabeau, keep goodly cheer;The Little Tower will stand well hereMany a year when we are dead,And over it our green and red,Barred with the Lady's golden head,From mere old age when we are dead.

UP and away through the drifting rain!Let us ride to the Little Tower again,

Up and away from the council board!Do on the hauberk, gird on the sword.

The king is blind with gnashing his teeth,Change gilded scabbard to leather sheath:

Though our arms are wet with the slanting rain,This is joy to ride to my love again:

I laugh in his face when he bids me yield;Who knows one field from the other field,

For the grey rain driveth all astray?Which way through the floods, good carle, I pray

The left side yet! the left side yet!Till your hand strikes on the bridge parapet.

Yea so: the causeway holdeth goodUnder the water? Hard as wood,

Right away to the uplands; speed, good knight!Seven hours yet before the light.

Shake the wet off on the upland road;My tabard has grown a heavy load.

What matter? up and down hill after hill;Dead grey night for five hours still.

The hill-road droppeth lower again,Lower, down to the poplar plain.

No furlong farther for us to-night,The Little Tower draweth in sight;

They are ringing the bells, and the torches glare,Therefore the roofs of wet slate stare.

There she stands, and her yellow hair slantinglyDrifts the same way that the rain goes by.

Who will be faithful to us to-day,With little but hard glaive-strokes for pay?

The grim king fumes at the council-board:Three more days, and then the sword;

Three more days, and my sword through his head;And above his white brows, pale and dead,

A paper crown on the top of the spire;And for her the stake and the witches' fire.

Therefore though it be long ere day,Take axe and pick and spade, I pray.

Break the dams down all over the plain:God send us three more days such rain!

Block all the upland roads with trees;The Little Tower with no great ease

Is won, I warrant; bid them bringMuch sheep and oxen, everything

The spits are wont to turn with; wineAnd wheaten bread, that we may dine

In plenty each day of the siege.Good friends, ye know me no hard liege;

My lady is right fair, see ye!Pray God to keep you frank and free.

Love Isabeau, keep goodly cheer;The Little Tower will stand well here

Many a year when we are dead,And over it our green and red,

Barred with the Lady's golden head,From mere old age when we are dead.

ACROSS the empty garden-beds,When the Sword went out to sea,I scarcely saw my sisters' headsBowed each beside a tree.I could not see the castle leads,When the Sword went out to sea,Alicia wore a scarlet gown,When the Sword went out to sea,But Ursula's was russet brown:For the mist we could not seeThe scarlet roofs of the good town,When the Sword went out to sea.Green holly in Alicia's hand,When the Sword went out to sea;With sere oak-leaves did Ursula stand;O! yet alas for me!I did but bear a peel'd white wand,When the Sword went out to sea.O, russet brown and scarlet bright,When the Sword went out to sea,My sisters wore; I wore but white:Red, brown, and white, are three;Three damozels; each had a knight,When the Sword went out to sea.Sir Robert shouted loud, and said:When the Sword went out to sea,Alicia, while I see thy head,What shall I bring for thee?O, my sweet Lord, a ruby red:The Sword went out to sea.Sir Miles said, while the sails hung down,When the Sword went out to sea,O, Ursula! while I see the town,What shall I bring for thee?Dear knight, bring back a falcon brown:The Sword went out to sea.But my Roland, no word he saidWhen the Sword went out to sea,But only turn'd away his head;A quick shriek came from me:Come back, dear lord, to your white maid.The Sword went out to sea.The hot sun bit the garden-bedsWhen the Sword came back from sea;Beneath an apple-tree our headsStretched out toward the sea;Grey gleam'd the thirsty castle-leads,When the Sword came back from sea.Lord Robert brought a ruby red,When the Sword came back from sea;He kissed Alicia on the head:I am come back to thee;'Tis time, sweet love, that we were wed,Now the Sword is back from sea!Sir Miles he bore a falcon brown,When the Sword came back from sea;His arms went round tall Ursula's gown:What joy, O love, but thee?Let us be wed in the good town,Now the Sword is back from sea!My heart grew sick, no more afraid,When the Sword came back from sea;Upon the deck a tall white maidSat on Lord Roland's knee;His chin was press'd upon her head,When the Sword came back from sea!

ACROSS the empty garden-beds,When the Sword went out to sea,I scarcely saw my sisters' headsBowed each beside a tree.I could not see the castle leads,When the Sword went out to sea,

Alicia wore a scarlet gown,When the Sword went out to sea,But Ursula's was russet brown:For the mist we could not seeThe scarlet roofs of the good town,When the Sword went out to sea.

Green holly in Alicia's hand,When the Sword went out to sea;With sere oak-leaves did Ursula stand;O! yet alas for me!I did but bear a peel'd white wand,When the Sword went out to sea.

O, russet brown and scarlet bright,When the Sword went out to sea,My sisters wore; I wore but white:Red, brown, and white, are three;Three damozels; each had a knight,When the Sword went out to sea.

Sir Robert shouted loud, and said:When the Sword went out to sea,Alicia, while I see thy head,What shall I bring for thee?O, my sweet Lord, a ruby red:The Sword went out to sea.

Sir Miles said, while the sails hung down,When the Sword went out to sea,O, Ursula! while I see the town,What shall I bring for thee?Dear knight, bring back a falcon brown:The Sword went out to sea.

But my Roland, no word he saidWhen the Sword went out to sea,But only turn'd away his head;A quick shriek came from me:Come back, dear lord, to your white maid.The Sword went out to sea.

The hot sun bit the garden-bedsWhen the Sword came back from sea;Beneath an apple-tree our headsStretched out toward the sea;Grey gleam'd the thirsty castle-leads,When the Sword came back from sea.

Lord Robert brought a ruby red,When the Sword came back from sea;He kissed Alicia on the head:I am come back to thee;'Tis time, sweet love, that we were wed,Now the Sword is back from sea!

Sir Miles he bore a falcon brown,When the Sword came back from sea;His arms went round tall Ursula's gown:What joy, O love, but thee?Let us be wed in the good town,Now the Sword is back from sea!

My heart grew sick, no more afraid,When the Sword came back from sea;Upon the deck a tall white maidSat on Lord Roland's knee;His chin was press'd upon her head,When the Sword came back from sea!

HOW weary is it none can tell,How dismally the days go by!I hear the tinkling of the bell,I see the cross against the sky.The year wears round to Autumn-tide,Yet comes no reaper to the corn;The golden land is like a brideWhen first she knows herself forlorn;She sits and weeps with all her hairLaid downward over tender hands;For stainèd silk she hath no care,No care for broken ivory wands;The silver cups beside her stand;The golden stars on the blue roofYet glitter, though against her handHis cold sword presses for a proofHe is not dead, but gone away.How many hours did she waitFor me, I wonder? Till the dayHad faded wholly, and the gateClanged to behind returning knights?I wonder did she raise her headAnd go away, fleeing the lights;And lay the samite on her bed,The wedding samite strewn with pearls:Then sit with hands laid on her knees,Shuddering at half-heard sound of girlsThat chatter outside in the breeze?I wonder did her poor heart throbAt distant tramp of coming knight?How often did the choking sobRaise up her head and lips? The light,Did it come on her unawares,And drag her sternly down beforePeople who loved her not? in prayersDid she say one name and no more?And once, all songs they ever sung,All tales they ever told to me,This only burden through them rung:O golden love that waitest me!The days pass on, pass on apace,Sometimes I have a little restIn fairest dreams, when on thy faceMy lips lie, or thy hands are prestAbout my forehead, and thy lipsDraw near and nearer to mine own;But when the vision from me slips,In colourless dawn I lie and moan,And wander forth with fever'd blood,That makes me start at little things,The blackbird screaming from the wood,The sudden whirr of pheasants' wings.O dearest, scarcely seen by me!But when that wild time had gone by,And in these arms I folded thee,Who ever thought those days could die?Yet now I wait, and you wait too,For what perchance may never come;You think I have forgotten you,That I grew tired and went home.But what if some day as I stoodAgainst the wall with strainèd hands,And turn'd my face toward the wood,Away from all the golden lands;And saw you come with tired feet,And pale face thin and wan with care,And stainèd raiment no more neat,The white dust lying on your hair:Then I should say, I could not come;This land was my wide prison, dear;I could not choose but go; at homeThere is a wizard whom I fear:He bound me round with silken chainsI could not break; he set me hereAbove the golden-waving plains,Where never reaper cometh near.And you have brought me my good sword,Wherewith in happy days of oldI won you well from knight and lord;My heart upswells and I grow bold.But I shall die unless you stand,Half lying now, you are so weak,Within my arms, unless your handPass to and fro across my cheek.

HOW weary is it none can tell,How dismally the days go by!I hear the tinkling of the bell,I see the cross against the sky.

The year wears round to Autumn-tide,Yet comes no reaper to the corn;The golden land is like a brideWhen first she knows herself forlorn;

She sits and weeps with all her hairLaid downward over tender hands;For stainèd silk she hath no care,No care for broken ivory wands;

The silver cups beside her stand;The golden stars on the blue roofYet glitter, though against her handHis cold sword presses for a proof

He is not dead, but gone away.How many hours did she waitFor me, I wonder? Till the dayHad faded wholly, and the gate

Clanged to behind returning knights?I wonder did she raise her headAnd go away, fleeing the lights;And lay the samite on her bed,

The wedding samite strewn with pearls:Then sit with hands laid on her knees,Shuddering at half-heard sound of girlsThat chatter outside in the breeze?

I wonder did her poor heart throbAt distant tramp of coming knight?How often did the choking sobRaise up her head and lips? The light,

Did it come on her unawares,And drag her sternly down beforePeople who loved her not? in prayersDid she say one name and no more?

And once, all songs they ever sung,All tales they ever told to me,This only burden through them rung:O golden love that waitest me!

The days pass on, pass on apace,Sometimes I have a little restIn fairest dreams, when on thy faceMy lips lie, or thy hands are prest

About my forehead, and thy lipsDraw near and nearer to mine own;But when the vision from me slips,In colourless dawn I lie and moan,

And wander forth with fever'd blood,That makes me start at little things,The blackbird screaming from the wood,The sudden whirr of pheasants' wings.

O dearest, scarcely seen by me!But when that wild time had gone by,And in these arms I folded thee,Who ever thought those days could die?

Yet now I wait, and you wait too,For what perchance may never come;You think I have forgotten you,That I grew tired and went home.

But what if some day as I stoodAgainst the wall with strainèd hands,And turn'd my face toward the wood,Away from all the golden lands;

And saw you come with tired feet,And pale face thin and wan with care,And stainèd raiment no more neat,The white dust lying on your hair:

Then I should say, I could not come;This land was my wide prison, dear;I could not choose but go; at homeThere is a wizard whom I fear:

He bound me round with silken chainsI could not break; he set me hereAbove the golden-waving plains,Where never reaper cometh near.

And you have brought me my good sword,Wherewith in happy days of oldI won you well from knight and lord;My heart upswells and I grow bold.

But I shall die unless you stand,Half lying now, you are so weak,Within my arms, unless your handPass to and fro across my cheek.

AH! no, no, it is nothing, surely nothing at all,Only the wild-going wind round by the garden-wall,For the dawn just now is breaking, the wind beginning to fall.Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.So I will sit, and think and think of the days gone by,Never moving my chair for fear the dogs should cry,Making no noise at all while the flambeau burns awry.For my chair is heavy and carved, and with sweeping green behindIt is hung, and the dragons thereon grin out in the gusts of the wind;On its folds an orange lies, with a deep gash cut in the rind.Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.If I move my chair it will scream, and the orange will roll out afar,And the faint yellow juice ooze out like blood from a wizard's jar;And the dogs will howl for those who went last month to the war.Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.So I will sit and think of love that is over and past,O, so long ago! Yes, I will be quiet at last:Whether I like it or not, a grim half-slumber is castOver my worn old brains, that touches the roots of my heart,And above my half-shut eyes, the blue roof 'gins to part,And show the blue spring sky, till I am ready to startFrom out of the green-hung chair; but something keeps me still,And I fall in a dream that I walk'd with her on the side of a hill,Dotted, for was it not spring? with tufts of the daffodil.Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.And Margaret as she walk'd held a painted book in her hand;Her finger kept the place; I caught her, we both did standFace to face, on the top of the highest hill in the land.Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.I held to her long bare arms, but she shudder'd away from me,While the flush went out of her face as her head fell back on a tree,And a spasm caught her mouth, fearful for me to see;And still I held to her arms till her shoulder touched my mail,Weeping she totter'd forward, so glad that I should prevail,And her hair went over my robe, like a gold flag over a sail.Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.I kiss'd her hard by the ear, and she kiss'd me on the brow,And then lay down on the grass, where the mark on the moss is now,And spread her arms out wide while I went down below.Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.And then I walk'd for a space to and fro on the side of the hill,Till I gather'd and held in my arms great sheaves of the daffodil,And when I came again my Margaret lay there still.I piled them high and high above her heaving breast,How they were caught and held in her loose ungirded vest!But one beneath her arm died, happy so to be prest!Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.Again I turn'd my back and went away for an hour;She said no word when I came again, so, flower by flower,I counted the daffodils over, and cast them languidly lower.Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.My dry hands shook and shook as the green gown show'd again,Clear'd from the yellow flowers, and I grew hollow with pain,And on to us both there fell from the sun-shower drops of rain.Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.Alas! alas! there was blood on the very quiet breast,Blood lay in the many folds of the loose ungirded vest,Blood lay upon her arm where the flower had been prest.I shriek'd and leapt from my chair, and the orange roll'd out afar,The faint yellow juice oozed out like blood from a wizard's jar;And then in march'd the ghosts of those that had gone to the war.I knew them by the arms that I was used to paintUpon their long thin shields; but the colours were all grown faint,And faint upon their banner was Olaf, king and saint.Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.

AH! no, no, it is nothing, surely nothing at all,Only the wild-going wind round by the garden-wall,For the dawn just now is breaking, the wind beginning to fall.