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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
138
THE KING
Up from the glimmering east the full moon swung,
A golden bubble buoyed zenithward
Above black hills. The white-eyed stars, that thronged,—
Hot with the drought,—the cloudless slopes of heaven,
Winked thirstily; no wind aroused the leaves,
That o'er the glaring road hung motionless,
Withered and whitened of the weary dust
From many hoofs of many a fellowship
Of knights who rode to'ards quest or tournament:
Among them those who brought the King disguised,
Whose mind was, “in the lists to joust and be
An equal 'mid unequals, man to man:”
Who from the towers of Edric passed, wherein
Some days he'd sojourned, waiting Launcelot:
That morn it was; . . . for, with the morn, a horn
Sang at dim portals, musical with dew,
Wild echoes of wild woodlands and the hunt,
Clear herald of the stanchest of his knights.
And they, to the great tilt at Camelot,
Rode armored off, a noise of steel and steeds.
A golden bubble buoyed zenithward
Above black hills. The white-eyed stars, that thronged,—
Hot with the drought,—the cloudless slopes of heaven,
Winked thirstily; no wind aroused the leaves,
That o'er the glaring road hung motionless,
Withered and whitened of the weary dust
From many hoofs of many a fellowship
Of knights who rode to'ards quest or tournament:
Among them those who brought the King disguised,
Whose mind was, “in the lists to joust and be
An equal 'mid unequals, man to man:”
Who from the towers of Edric passed, wherein
Some days he'd sojourned, waiting Launcelot:
That morn it was; . . . for, with the morn, a horn
Sang at dim portals, musical with dew,
Wild echoes of wild woodlands and the hunt,
Clear herald of the stanchest of his knights.
139
Rode armored off, a noise of steel and steeds.
Thick in the stagnant moat the lilies lay,
Pale 'mid their pads; above them, huge with chains,
The drawbridge hung before the barbéd grate;
And far above, along lone battlements,
His armor moon-drenched, one lone sentinel
Clanked drowsily; and it was late in June.
Pale 'mid their pads; above them, huge with chains,
The drawbridge hung before the barbéd grate;
And far above, along lone battlements,
His armor moon-drenched, one lone sentinel
Clanked drowsily; and it was late in June.
She, at her lattice, loosely night-robed, leaned,
Thinking of one she loved: a pensive smile
Haunting her face; a face as fair as night's,
Night's when divinely beautiful with stars,
Two stars, at least, that dreamed beneath her brows.
Long, raven loops and coils of sensuous hair
Rolled turbulence round white-glimpsed neck and throat,
That shamed the moonlight with a rival sheen.
Thinking of one she loved: a pensive smile
Haunting her face; a face as fair as night's,
Night's when divinely beautiful with stars,
Two stars, at least, that dreamed beneath her brows.
Long, raven loops and coils of sensuous hair
Rolled turbulence round white-glimpsed neck and throat,
That shamed the moonlight with a rival sheen.
One stooped above her; and his nostrils breathed
Heavy perfumes that blossomed in her hair;
And round her waist hooped one strong arm and drew
Her mightily to him, soft crushing,—cool
With yielding freshness of her form,—her gown;
Then searched her eyes until his own seemed drunk
And mad with passion: then one hungry kiss
Bruised, hard as anger, on her breathless lips,
Fiercer than fire. Leaning lower, then
A whispered, “Lov'st but one? and he?”—And then,
She, with impatience, “Rough and rude thou art!
Why crush me, thou great bear, with such a hug!
Or kill me with such kisses!”—Then, as soft
As some rich rose syllabling musk and dew,
“And whom I love?—ah, Edric, need I say!” . . .
Then he, fierce-smiling, swiftly, without word,
His countenance harsh-writhen into hate's
Gnarled hideousness, haled back her marvelous head,
Back, back by all its braids of gathered hair,
Till her full bosom's clamorous loveliness
Stark on the moon burst bare. Low leaning then,
With mocking laughter, “Yea, by God's own blood!
The King, O thou adulteress!” and a blade
Glanced, thin as ice, plunged hard, hard in her heart.
Heavy perfumes that blossomed in her hair;
And round her waist hooped one strong arm and drew
Her mightily to him, soft crushing,—cool
140
Then searched her eyes until his own seemed drunk
And mad with passion: then one hungry kiss
Bruised, hard as anger, on her breathless lips,
Fiercer than fire. Leaning lower, then
A whispered, “Lov'st but one? and he?”—And then,
She, with impatience, “Rough and rude thou art!
Why crush me, thou great bear, with such a hug!
Or kill me with such kisses!”—Then, as soft
As some rich rose syllabling musk and dew,
“And whom I love?—ah, Edric, need I say!” . . .
Then he, fierce-smiling, swiftly, without word,
His countenance harsh-writhen into hate's
Gnarled hideousness, haled back her marvelous head,
Back, back by all its braids of gathered hair,
Till her full bosom's clamorous loveliness
Stark on the moon burst bare. Low leaning then,
With mocking laughter, “Yea, by God's own blood!
The King, O thou adulteress!” and a blade
Glanced, thin as ice, plunged hard, hard in her heart.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |