 | Lays of France |  |
And he who, in the fair
Rich Paynim place, with the ripe glare
Of foreign summers gilding palm
And poisonous fruit about him, calm
And mighty, rusted in red steel—
Not merely barren did he feel
Death's prison and the silent gloom
Around him; but, within, the tomb
Was opulent with glimmering gold;
For the slim tress that once was hid
Upon his heart, was grown to fold
On fold that many times had rolled
About him; and he lay amid
The splendours of it, and thought well
That he should have her soul for hell
Or heaven.
107
Of foreign summers gilding palm
And poisonous fruit about him, calm
And mighty, rusted in red steel—
Not merely barren did he feel
Death's prison and the silent gloom
Around him; but, within, the tomb
Was opulent with glimmering gold;
For the slim tress that once was hid
Upon his heart, was grown to fold
On fold that many times had rolled
About him; and he lay amid
The splendours of it, and thought well
That he should have her soul for hell
Or heaven.
| Lays of France | |