 | Lays of France |  |
Time was so bare,
—Her heart at solitary feast
Of sorrow sitting unreleast
For ever, wasting slow the hair
Of gold, the plenteous form of white
Unconquerable flower, through night
And day, that emptied year and year
Of sullied summers, drawing near
To death scarce more a winter;—yea,
And one last chosen tomb seemed, day
And night, so little comforted
With summer given or true tear shed—
There might have been—her heart now said
Sometimes all softly—even for him,
That earlier lover, lightly slain
Without the touch of her for dim
Delicious dreaming after vain,
Void life, the guiltless recompense
Of more love than he sought to save
His soul; yea, though he had gone hence,
Telling the worms they should but have
Hair's gold that once had been his bed,
And dust that love for once had wed
To his glad dust, when death made her
Some next year's spoil! O who would stir
In sleep down there, and think he missed
Aught of the faultless mouth that kissed
His life all through? For, verily,
—He who had all—was not his day,
E'en to death softened endlessly
With love, filled to the full and more
With sweet of hers? And, where he lay,
Was not the grave o'erbrimmed with store
Of perfect memories and rich ore
Of a life rich in love? And, now,
It seemed all bitter to avow
That one most gracious should have gone
Uncheered to death, who had lived on
Right rapturously, if once his brow
Had felt her lips; if once his hand
Had revelled on her, and his heart
Filled itself with one lovely part
Of loveliness, the rotting sand
Of time alone should use with kiss
Joyless for ever. Would not this—
To weigh the lost wealth of her hair
Once in his hand, as one might poise
Some weight of gold—have seemed right fair
To him, amid the few sad joys
He thought it well to die for? Yea,
And now the whole sweet, that he lay
Evermore thirsting for, was there
At waste for ever, out of care
Of any; and no man came back
To call it his.
—Her heart at solitary feast
Of sorrow sitting unreleast
For ever, wasting slow the hair
Of gold, the plenteous form of white
Unconquerable flower, through night
And day, that emptied year and year
Of sullied summers, drawing near
To death scarce more a winter;—yea,
And one last chosen tomb seemed, day
And night, so little comforted
101
There might have been—her heart now said
Sometimes all softly—even for him,
That earlier lover, lightly slain
Without the touch of her for dim
Delicious dreaming after vain,
Void life, the guiltless recompense
Of more love than he sought to save
His soul; yea, though he had gone hence,
Telling the worms they should but have
Hair's gold that once had been his bed,
And dust that love for once had wed
To his glad dust, when death made her
Some next year's spoil! O who would stir
In sleep down there, and think he missed
Aught of the faultless mouth that kissed
His life all through? For, verily,
—He who had all—was not his day,
E'en to death softened endlessly
With love, filled to the full and more
With sweet of hers? And, where he lay,
Was not the grave o'erbrimmed with store
Of perfect memories and rich ore
102
It seemed all bitter to avow
That one most gracious should have gone
Uncheered to death, who had lived on
Right rapturously, if once his brow
Had felt her lips; if once his hand
Had revelled on her, and his heart
Filled itself with one lovely part
Of loveliness, the rotting sand
Of time alone should use with kiss
Joyless for ever. Would not this—
To weigh the lost wealth of her hair
Once in his hand, as one might poise
Some weight of gold—have seemed right fair
To him, amid the few sad joys
He thought it well to die for? Yea,
And now the whole sweet, that he lay
Evermore thirsting for, was there
At waste for ever, out of care
Of any; and no man came back
To call it his.
| Lays of France | |