You the Queen of the wrens We'll be birds of a feather, I'll be King of the Queen of the wrens, And all in a nest together. VI. THE LETTER. WHERE is another sweet as my sweet, Shall I write to her? shall I go? Ay or no, if ask'd to her face? Fly to the light in the valley below Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : Somebody said that she 'd say no; Somebody knows that she'll say ay! VII. NO ANSWER. THE mist and the rain, the mist and the rain ! Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? And never a glimpse of her window-pane! And I may die but the grass will grow, And the grass will grow when I am gone, And the wet west wind and the world will go on. Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, No will push me down to the worm, And when I am there and dead and gone, The wet west wind and the world will go on. The wind and the wet, the wind and the And never a line from my lady yet! Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, And you my wren with a crown of gold, The wet west wind and the world may You my Queen of the wrens ! go on. For it 's easy to find a rhyme. O merry the linnet and dove, MARRIAGE MORNING. LIGHT, so low upon earth, You send a flash to the sun. Here is the golden close of love, All my wooing is done. O the woods and the meadows, Woods where we hid from the wet, You flash and lighten afar: By meadow and stile and wood: O lighten into my eyes and my heart, Into my heart and my blood! Heart, are you great enough For a love that never tires? Over the thorns and briers, And swallow and sparrow and throstle, Over the world to the end of it and have your desire! Flash for a million miles. THE LAST TOURNAMENT. DAGONET, the fool, whom Gawain in his Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table At Camelot, high above the yellowing Danced like a wither'd leaf before the Hall. And from the crown thereof a carcanet To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne Dead nestling, and this honor after death, Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone, Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear." For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once" Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead, From roots like some black coil of carven snakes Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid-air Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind Pierced ever a child's cry and crag and tree Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms A moment, and her cares; till that young Being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal cold Past from her; and in time the carcanet So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney- "Would rather ye had let them fall," she cried, Plunge and be lost- ill-fated as they were, A bitterness to me! ye look amazed, Not knowing they were lost as soon as given Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out Above the river-that unhappy child came Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, May win them for the purest of my maids." She ended, and the cry of a great jousts With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways From Camelot in among the faded fields To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. But on the hither side of that loud morn Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd nose Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, And one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame, A churl, to whom indignantly the King, "My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere, Friends, thro' your manhood and your fealty, -now Make their last head like Satan in the North. My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, Only to yield my Queen her own again? Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?" North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd. Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes." But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest, those in mockery, call'd The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose, And down a streetway hung with folds of pure White samite, and by fountains running wine, Where children sat in white with cups of gold, Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair. He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queen White-robed in honor of the stainless child, And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. He lookt but once, and veil'd his eyes again. The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are past away, Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed The dead babe and the follies of the King; And once the laces of a helmet crack'd, And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, And armor'd all in forest green, whereon There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, With ever-scattering berries, and on shield |