 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
25
A BALLAD
I know not how I loved at all;
Your presence in surprise
Came on me like a trumpet call,
And in a bright disguise;
Your presence in surprise
Came on me like a trumpet call,
And in a bright disguise;
A soldier in a burnish'd sheen
Of scale and listed blue,
With jangling armour and a mien
Of conquest as your due.
Of scale and listed blue,
With jangling armour and a mien
Of conquest as your due.
The rose of youth upon your face,
My name upon your lips,
The rippling trees, the lonely place,
The sails of harbour ships,
My name upon your lips,
The rippling trees, the lonely place,
The sails of harbour ships,
The time and all so fairy-sweet,—
That at each word we did say,
I felt the time for love so meet
That love I gave away.
That at each word we did say,
I felt the time for love so meet
That love I gave away.
How fair the trailer's ruddy pride
Blazed out on cottage eaves,
How sweet when all the country-side
Shows like a wood of sheaves.
Blazed out on cottage eaves,
How sweet when all the country-side
Shows like a wood of sheaves.
How dear in middle harvesting
The reaper's roundel clear,
Where shakes the field-lark out its wing
From threaded gossamere.
The reaper's roundel clear,
Where shakes the field-lark out its wing
From threaded gossamere.
Sweet fickle Love, you grow for some,
And grip them to their grief,
As sudden as the red-wings come
At the full fall of the leaf.
And grip them to their grief,
As sudden as the red-wings come
At the full fall of the leaf.
And sudden as the swallows go
That muster for the sea,
You pass away before we know,
And wounded hearts are we.
That muster for the sea,
You pass away before we know,
And wounded hearts are we.
'Tis not that, Love, in sentence trim
You reel off loving talk,
When pensive by the river brim
With hand on hand we walk.
You reel off loving talk,
When pensive by the river brim
With hand on hand we walk.
26
It is not that you press my arm,
Or soften voice and eyes,
Or rivet hand, and glibly warm
The fervour of your sighs.
Or soften voice and eyes,
Or rivet hand, and glibly warm
The fervour of your sighs.
Who tells true heart from feigning deep,
How crafty-wise were he,
He knows the hill-side sheep from sheep,
The mountain-bee from bee.
How crafty-wise were he,
He knows the hill-side sheep from sheep,
The mountain-bee from bee.
We take on trust, forsooth we must,
And reckon as we see;
But, O my Love, if false thou prove,
What recks all else to me!
And reckon as we see;
But, O my Love, if false thou prove,
What recks all else to me!
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |