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THE SQUIRE'S SONG.
“Store hath she of gifts meet
That gave to me the golden thread;
Store hath she of wordes sweet
That with it nevêr word said.
How may be, then, this riddle read?
She did not speak her meaning plain,
But if she meant her gift for pain
It suiteth well,” he said, “with me.
What man that liveth but pain knoweth?
And if for love, I ween it groweth
In gentle hearts full speedily.
That gave to me the golden thread;
Store hath she of wordes sweet
That with it nevêr word said.
How may be, then, this riddle read?
She did not speak her meaning plain,
But if she meant her gift for pain
It suiteth well,” he said, “with me.
What man that liveth but pain knoweth?
And if for love, I ween it groweth
In gentle hearts full speedily.
“I would that she had spoken soft,
I would that she had smiled,” he said,
“As oft she speaketh, smileth oft,
That gave to me the golden thread.
And yet her gift with my degree
Suits, that am a lowly squire;
The cloth of gold it may not be,
The cloth of frieze is not for me,
In that so highly I aspire.
I prize the gift I did not choose!
Contented well with my estate
I stand, I serve, I run, I wait.
Content am I to win, to lose,
To bear through all a heart elate,
To bear through all a wounded breast;
And foeman's hand that seeks,” he said,
“My heart to strike or sweet friend's head
That fain thereon would lean to rest,
Must strike it through the golden thread,
Must lean upon a wound red!
I would that she had smiled,” he said,
“As oft she speaketh, smileth oft,
That gave to me the golden thread.
And yet her gift with my degree
Suits, that am a lowly squire;
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The cloth of frieze is not for me,
In that so highly I aspire.
I prize the gift I did not choose!
Contented well with my estate
I stand, I serve, I run, I wait.
Content am I to win, to lose,
To bear through all a heart elate,
To bear through all a wounded breast;
And foeman's hand that seeks,” he said,
“My heart to strike or sweet friend's head
That fain thereon would lean to rest,
Must strike it through the golden thread,
Must lean upon a wound red!
“Dayes of peace and dayes of strife
Pass,” he said, “and heat and cold,
And ever with my hearte's life
Is wrought the little thread of gold.
It is not with me as of old;
My careless dayes of youth and glee
Are gone for ever, such a bold
Sweet surmise to felicitie
Hath neighboured me, and unto pain
Knit up my life with longing vain,
And neared it to a purpose high;
And still runneth, till life flit by,
Through all my dayes a wound red,
Runneth still a golden thread!”
Pass,” he said, “and heat and cold,
And ever with my hearte's life
Is wrought the little thread of gold.
It is not with me as of old;
My careless dayes of youth and glee
Are gone for ever, such a bold
Sweet surmise to felicitie
Hath neighboured me, and unto pain
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And neared it to a purpose high;
And still runneth, till life flit by,
Through all my dayes a wound red,
Runneth still a golden thread!”
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