 | Lays of France |  |
It seemed now as a sad thing heard
But yesterday, how, bearing still
Fair vow of hers, wherefrom the will
Of other love had wrenched her, yea,
Relying ever on each fair
Uncancelled word, and, night and day,
Bound, with her gift of golden hair,
To hold hers only heart and hand,
For ever,—one in Paynim land
Died loving her. The intense flower
Of waving strange-leaved trees that sang
His dirge with voices wild and soft,
Wafted her perfume that had power
To shake her heart; warm air, that rang
With ends of unknown singing, oft
Broke in upon her, as though space
Of cold climes and cold seas between
Were dwindling, and she should have seen
That fair unconsecrated place,
Golden in sunlight, green in shade
Of many a palm and mighty blade
Of monstrous herb.
But yesterday, how, bearing still
Fair vow of hers, wherefrom the will
Of other love had wrenched her, yea,
Relying ever on each fair
Uncancelled word, and, night and day,
Bound, with her gift of golden hair,
To hold hers only heart and hand,
For ever,—one in Paynim land
Died loving her. The intense flower
Of waving strange-leaved trees that sang
His dirge with voices wild and soft,
Wafted her perfume that had power
To shake her heart; warm air, that rang
With ends of unknown singing, oft
Broke in upon her, as though space
Of cold climes and cold seas between
Were dwindling, and she should have seen
That fair unconsecrated place,
105
Of many a palm and mighty blade
Of monstrous herb.
| Lays of France | |