Part 7
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 cast
Over 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 start
From 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 stand Face 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 paint Upon 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._
THE BLUE CLOSET
THE DAMOZELS.
Lady Alice, lady Louise, Between the wash of the tumbling seas We are ready to sing, if so ye please; So lay your long hands on the keys; Sing, _Laudate pueri_.
_And ever the great bell overhead Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead, Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead._
LADY LOUISE.
Sister, let the measure swell Not too loud; for you sing not well If you drown the faint boom of the bell; He is weary, so am I.
_And ever the chevron overhead Flapped on the banner of the dead; (Was he asleep, or was he dead?)_
LADY ALICE.
Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen, Two damozels wearing purple and green, Four lone ladies dwelling here From day to day and year to year; And there is none to let us go; To break the locks of the doors below, Or shovel away the heaped-up snow; And when we die no man will know That we are dead; but they give us leave, Once every year on Christmas-eve, To sing in the Closet Blue one song; And we should be so long, so long, If we dared, in singing; for dream on dream, They float on in a happy stream; Float from the gold strings, float from the keys, Float from the open'd lips of Louise; But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue; _And ever the great bell overhead Booms in the wind a knell for the dead, The wind plays on it a knell for the dead._
_They sing all together._
How long ago was it, how long ago, He came to this tower with hands full of snow?
Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down! he said, And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.
He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.
I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise, For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;
In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears, But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;
Yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry, I am so feeble now, would I might die.
_And in truth the great bell overhead Left off his pealing for the dead, Perchance, because the wind was dead._
Will he come back again, or is he dead? O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?
Or did they strangle him as he lay there, With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?
Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here! Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.
Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.
_Through the floor shot up a lily red, With a patch of earth from the land of the dead, For he was strong in the land of the dead._
What matter that his cheeks were pale, His kind kiss'd lips all grey? O, love Louise, have you waited long? O, my lord Arthur, yea.
What if his hair that brush'd her cheek Was stiff with frozen rime? His eyes were grown quite blue again, As in the happy time.
O, love Louise, this is the key Of the happy golden land! O, sisters, cross the bridge with me, My eyes are full of sand. What matter that I cannot see, If ye take me by the hand?
_And ever the great bell overhead, And the tumbling seas mourned for the dead; For their song ceased, and they were dead._
THE TUNE OF SEVEN TOWERS
No one goes there now: For what is left to fetch away From the desolate battlements all arow, And the lead roof heavy and grey? _Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers._
No one walks there now; Except in the white moonlight The white ghosts walk in a row; If one could see it, an awful sight, _Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers._
But none can see them now, Though they sit by the side of the moat, Feet half in the water, there in a row, Long hair in the wind afloat. _Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers._
If any will go to it now, He must go to it all alone, Its gates will not open to any row Of glittering spears: will _you_ go alone? _Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers._
By my love go there now, To fetch me my coif away, My coif and my kirtle, with pearls arow, Oliver, go to-day! _Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers._
I am unhappy now, I cannot tell you why; If you go, the priests and I in a row Will pray that you may not die. _Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers._
If you will go for me now, I will kiss your mouth at last; [_She sayeth inwardly._] (_The graves stand grey in a row._) Oliver, hold me fast! _Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers._
GOLDEN WINGS
Midways of a wallèd garden, In the happy poplar land, Did an ancient castle stand, With an old knight for a warden.
Many scarlet bricks there were In its walls, and old grey stone; Over which red apples shone At the right time of the year.
On the bricks the green moss grew. Yellow lichen on the stone, Over which red apples shone; Little war that castle knew.
Deep green water fill'd the moat, Each side had a red-brick lip, Green and mossy with the drip Of dew and rain; there was a boat
Of carven wood, with hangings green About the stern; it was great bliss For lovers to sit there and kiss In the hot summer noons, not seen.
Across the moat the fresh west wind In very little ripples went; The way the heavy aspens bent Towards it, was a thing to mind.
The painted drawbridge over it Went up and down with gilded chains, 'Twas pleasant in the summer rains Within the bridge-house there to sit.
There were five swans that ne'er did eat The water-weeds, for ladies came Each day, and young knights did the same, And gave them cakes and bread for meat.
They had a house of painted wood, A red roof gold-spiked over it, Wherein upon their eggs to sit Week after week; no drop of blood,
Drawn from men's bodies by sword-blows, Came ever there, or any tear; Most certainly from year to year 'Twas pleasant as a Provence rose.
The banners seem'd quite full of ease, That over the turret-roofs hung down; The battlements could get no frown From the flower-moulded cornices.
Who walked in that garden there? Miles and Giles and Isabeau, Tall Jehane du Castel beau, Alice of the golden hair,
Big Sir Gervaise, the good knight, Fair Ellayne le Violet, Mary, Constance fille de fay, Many dames with footfall light.
Whosoever wander'd there, Whether it be dame or knight, Half of scarlet, half of white Their raiment was; of roses fair
Each wore a garland on the head, At Ladies' Gard the way was so: Fair Jehane du Castel beau Wore her wreath till it was dead.
Little joy she had of it, Of the raiment white and red, Or the garland on her head, She had none with whom to sit
In the carven boat at noon; None the more did Jehane weep, She would only stand and keep Saying: He will be here soon!
Many times in the long day Miles and Giles and Gervaise passed, Holding each some white hand fast, Every time they heard her say:
Summer cometh to an end, Undern cometh after noon; Golden wings will be here soon, What if I some token send?
Wherefore that night within the hall, With open mouth and open eyes, Like some one listening with surprise, She sat before the sight of all.
Stoop'd down a little she sat there, With neck stretch'd out and chin thrown up, One hand around a golden cup; And strangely with her fingers fair
She beat some tune upon the gold; The minstrels in the gallery Sung: Arthur, who will never die, In Avallon he groweth old.
And when the song was ended, she Rose and caught up her gown and ran; None stopp'd her eager face and wan Of all that pleasant company.
Right so within her own chamber Upon her bed she sat; and drew Her breath in quick gasps; till she knew That no man follow'd after her.
She took the garland from her head, Loosed all her hair, and let it lie Upon the coverlet; thereby She laid the gown of white and red;
And she took off her scarlet shoon, And bared her feet; still more and more Her sweet face redden'd; evermore She murmur'd: He will be here soon;
Truly he cannot fail to know My tender body waits him here; And if he knows, I have no fear For poor Jehane du Castel beau.
She took a sword within her hand, Whose hilts were silver, and she sung Somehow like this, wild words that rung A long way over the moonlit land:
Gold wings across the sea! Grey light from tree to tree, Gold hair beside my knee, I pray thee come to me, Gold wings!
The water slips, The red-bill'd moorhen dips. Sweet kisses on red lips; Alas! the red rust grips, And the blood-red dagger rips, Yet, O knight, come to me!
Are not my blue eyes sweet? The west wind from the wheat Blows cold across my feet; Is it not time to meet Gold wings across the sea?
White swans on the green moat, Small feathers left afloat By the blue-painted boat; Swift running of the stoat, Sweet gurgling note by note Of sweet music.
O gold wings, Listen how gold hair sings, And the Ladies Castle rings, Gold wings across the sea.
I sit on a purple bed, Outside, the wall is red, Thereby the apple hangs, And the wasp, caught by the fangs,
Dies in the autumn night, And the bat flits till light, And the love-crazèd knight
Kisses the long wet grass: The weary days pass, Gold wings across the sea.
Gold wings across the sea! Moonlight from tree to tree, Sweet hair laid on my knee, O, sweet knight, come to me.
Gold wings, the short night slips, The white swan's long neck drips, I pray thee kiss my lips, Gold wings across the sea!
No answer through the moonlit night; No answer in the cold grey dawn; No answer when the shaven lawn Grew green, and all the roses bright.
Her tired feet look'd cold and thin, Her lips were twitch'd, and wretched tears, Some, as she lay, roll'd past her ears, Some fell from off her quivering chin.
Her long throat, stretched to its full length, Rose up and fell right brokenly; As though the unhappy heart was nigh Striving to break with all its strength.
And when she slipp'd from off the bed, Her cramp'd feet would not hold her; she Sank down and crept on hand and knee, On the window-sill she laid her head.
There, with crooked arm upon the sill, She look'd out, muttering dismally: There is no sail upon the sea, No pennon on the empty hill.
I cannot stay here all alone, Or meet their happy faces here, And wretchedly I have no fear; A little while, and I am gone.
Therewith she rose upon her feet, And totter'd; cold and misery Still made the deep sobs come, till she At last stretch'd out her fingers sweet,
And caught the great sword in her hand; And, stealing down the silent stair, Barefooted in the morning air. And only in her smock, did stand
Upright upon the green lawn grass; And hope grew in her as she said: I have thrown off the white and red, And pray God it may come to pass
I meet him; if ten years go by Before I meet him; if, indeed, Meanwhile both soul and body bleed, Yet there is end of misery,
And I have hope. He could not come, But I can go to him and show These new things I have got to know, And make him speak, who has been dumb.
O Jehane! the red morning sun Changed her white feet to glowing gold, Upon her smock, on crease and fold, Changed that to gold which had been dun.
O Miles, and Giles, and Isabeau, Fair Ellayne le Violet, Mary, Constance fille de fay! Where is Jehane du Castel beau?
O big Gervaise ride apace! Down to the hard yellow sand, Where the water meets the land. This is Jehane by her face.
Why has she a broken sword? Mary! she is slain outright; Verily a piteous sight; Take her up without a word!
Giles and Miles and Gervaise there, Ladies' Gard must meet the war; Whatsoever knights these are, Man the walls withouten fear!
Axes to the apple-trees, Axes to the aspens tall! Barriers without the wall May be lightly made of these.
O poor shivering Isabeau; Poor Ellayne le Violet, Bent with fear! we miss to-day Brave Jehane du Castel beau.
O poor Mary, weeping so! Wretched Constance fille de fay! Verily we miss to-day Fair Jehane du Castel beau.
The apples now grow green and sour Upon the mouldering castle-wall, Before they ripen there they fall: There are no banners on the tower,
The draggled swans most eagerly eat The green weeds trailing in the moat; Inside the rotting leaky boat You see a slain man's stiffen'd feet.
THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS
Had she come all the way for this, To part at last without a kiss? Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain That her own eyes might see him slain Beside the haystack in the floods?
Along the dripping leafless woods, The stirrup touching either shoe, She rode astride as troopers do; With kirtle kilted to her knee, To which the mud splash'd wretchedly; And the wet dripp'd from every tree Upon her head and heavy hair, And on her eyelids broad and fair; The tears and rain ran down her face. By fits and starts they rode apace, And very often was his place Far off from her; he had to ride Ahead, to see what might betide When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when There rose a murmuring from his men, Had to turn back with promises. Ah me! she had but little ease; And often for pure doubt and dread She sobb'd, made giddy in the head By the swift riding; while, for cold, Her slender fingers scarce could hold The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too, She felt the foot within her shoe Against the stirrup: all for this, To part at last without a kiss Beside the haystack in the floods.
For when they near'd that old soak'd hay, They saw across the only way That Judas, Godmar, and the three Red running lions dismally Grinn'd from his pennon, under which In one straight line along the ditch, They counted thirty heads.
So then, While Robert turn'd round to his men, She saw at once the wretched end, And, stooping down, tried hard to rend Her coif the wrong way from her head, And hid her eyes; while Robert said: Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one, At Poictiers where we made them run So fast: why, sweet my love, good cheer, The Gascon frontier is so near, Nought after this.
But: O! she said, My God! my God! I have to tread The long way back without you; then The court at Paris; those six men; The gratings of the Chatelet; The swift Seine on some rainy day Like this, and people standing by, And laughing, while my weak hands try To recollect how strong men swim. All this, or else a life with him, For which I should be damned at last, Would God that this next hour were past!
He answer'd not, but cried his cry, St. George for Marny! cheerily; And laid his hand upon her rein. Alas! no man of all his train Gave back that cheery cry again; And, while for rage his thumb beat fast Upon his sword-hilt, some one cast About his neck a kerchief long, And bound him.
Then they went along To Godmar; who said: Now, Jehane, Your lover's life is on the wane So fast, that, if this very hour You yield not as my paramour, He will not see the rain leave off: Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff Sir Robert, or I slay you now.
She laid her hand upon her brow, Then gazed upon the palm, as though She thought her forehead bled, and: No! She said, and turn'd her head away, As there were nothing else to say, And everything were settled: red Grew Godmar's face from chin to head: Jehane, on yonder hill there stands My castle, guarding well my lands; What hinders me from taking you, And doing that I list to do To your fair wilful body, while Your knight lies dead?
A wicked smile Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, A long way out she thrust her chin: You know that I should strangle you While you were sleeping; or bite through Your throat, by God's help: ah! she said, Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid! For in such wise they hem me in, I cannot choose but sin and sin, Whatever happens: yet I think They could not make me eat or drink, And so should I just reach my rest. Nay, if you do not my behest, O Jehane! though I love you well, Said Godmar, would I fail to tell All that I know? Foul lies, she said. Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head, At Paris folks would deem them true! Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you: Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown! Give us Jehane to burn or drown! Eh! gag me Robert! Sweet my friend, This were indeed a piteous end For those long fingers, and long feet, And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet; An end that few men would forget That saw it. So, an hour yet: Consider, Jehane, which to take Of life or death!
So, scarce awake, Dismounting, did she leave that place, And totter some yards: with her face Turn'd upward to the sky she lay, Her head on a wet heap of hay, And fell asleep: and while she slept, And did not dream, the minutes crept Round to the twelve again; but she, Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly, And strangely childlike came, and said: I will not. Straightway Godmar's head, As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd Most sharply round, and his face burn'd.
For Robert, both his eyes were dry, He could not weep, but gloomily He seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too, His lips were firm; he tried once more To touch her lips; she reached out, sore And vain desire so tortured them, The poor grey lips, and now the hem Of his sleeve brush'd them.