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Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,

Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,

Plums on their twigs;

Pluck them and suck them,— Pomegranates, figs.'

'Good folk,' said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:

'Give me much and many:'
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
'Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,'
They answered grinning:
'Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these

No man can carry;

Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,

Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.'—

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'Thank you,' said Lizzie: 'But one waits At home alone for me:

So without further parleying,

If you will not sell me any

Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny

I tossed you for a fee.'

They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,

But visibly demurring,

Grunting and snarling.

One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil;
Their tones waxed loud,
Their looks were evil.

Lashing their tails

They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,

Clawed with their nails,

Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,

Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.

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haste

And inward laughter.

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Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,

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Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of

grey,

Her breath was sweet as May,

She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth. And light danced in her eyes.

Her lips began to scorch,

Days, weeks, months, years

540

That juice was wormwood to her tongue,

She loathed the feast:

Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own;

Their lives bound up in tender lives;

Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung, Their mother-hearts beset with fears,

Rent all her robe, and wrung

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Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone

Of not-returning time:

Would talk about the haunted glen,

The wicked quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat

But poison in the blood

(Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood

Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked In deadly peril to do her good,

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While, when you come not, what I do I do
Thinking 'Now when he comes,' my sweetest
'when':

For one man is my world of all the men
This wide world holds; O love, my world is you.
Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pang
Because the pang of parting comes so soon;
My hope hangs waning, waxing, like a moon
Between the heavenly days on which we meet:
Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang
When life was sweet because you called them
sweet?

2

I wish I could remember that first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season,-it might be
Summer or Winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such

A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;

May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
Those who have gone before.

They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896)

THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD.
A golden gilliflower to-day

I wore upon my helm alway,
And won the prize of this tourney.

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.1
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.

It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand-Did one but Although my spear in splinters flew,

know!

11

Many in aftertimes will say of you

From John's steel-coat, my eye was true;
I wheeled about, and cried for you,
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

'He loved her '-while of me what will they Yea, do not doubt my heart was good,
say?
Though my sword flew like rotten wood,
Not that I loved you more than just in play, To shout, although I scarcely stood,
For fashion's sake as idle women do.
Even let them prate; who know not what we
knew

Of love and parting in exceeding pain,
Of parting hopeless here to meet again,
Hopeless on earth, and heaven is out of view.
But by my heart of love laid bare to you,
My love that you can make not void nor vain,
Love that foregoes you but to claim anew
Beyond this passage of the gate of death,
I charge you at the Judgment make it plain
My love of you was life and not a breath.

UP-HILL

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

My hand was steady, too, to take
My axe from round my neck, and break
John'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 pain
Take 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 shew
The gilliflower blossomed new.

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

The Sieur Guillaume against me came,

Will the day's journey take the whole long His tabard bore three points of flame

day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

From a red heart; with little blame

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée

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