University of Virginia Library

Since I have e'en begun to sing
Full many a tender and sweet thing
Of love and lovers; half to ease
My heart's great woe of yearning thought,
That many a love indeed hath brought
Against me, yea, that shall not cease
This side of death; and half to please
Your gentle ears, if so I may;
Shall I end adding lay to lay,
Having yet in my heart unsung,
Strangest and loveliest among
The treasured tales that Marie sang
This tale of the fair love that sprang
Wondrous, and like a flower unsown
In the sad desert of a lone
And hopeless life? Ah, miracle!
—That visitest so secretly
The straight, the joyless inward cell
Of many a soul that hath to dwell
Chained to some unknown misery
Of thought and unattainable dream
Of heavens: unearthly do they seem
Unreal and distant as a star
Until thou, soft and sudden—light
And glory filling day and night
With splendid rapture—dost unbar
Some unimagined golden gate
Of love! How excellent they are—
The clear transfigurements that wait
Throughout the world for thee, O Love,
As for the lifting of a veil
That shows blithe souls that feigned of late
Most funeral faces! how above
The sky of any former pale
And faultless dream becomes the earth
That thou hast touched, the blessèd air
That thou hast breathed in and made fair
With smiles! The cruel stones give birth
To rich unheard-of blooms; and worth
The great blue side of heaven seems now
The white wall of a prison, if thou
Hast let the sunlight in. And, lo,
Henceforth, there is no kind of woe
To reach the hidden heart and stay
The ecstasy that night and day
Makes lone immense sweet singing there.
—For some, indeed, may love, and lay
Their great resplendent joys quite bare
Before the world,—unshamed and glad
And glorious as they walk from birth
To death, proclaiming they have had
Such fair wealth all their way, such mirth
Of very passionate delight—
Love himself coming to them clad
In some new saffron day and night—
That, truly, all hath been most sweet,
And nothing goodlier need they meet
In heaven: but some, indeed, must keep
A tyranny on lip and look;
And eyes that fain would smile must weep,
And voice, that fain would ofttimes leap
Into great singing, must all brook
To speak the set words of some book,
Lest it should sing the secret out
That gilds each thought and glorifies
The infinite innermost that lies
Dissembled; and no man shall doubt
The pained white of the patient face,
That long it hath been painless,—nay,
Nor dream the long detested way
Of servitude hath got the grace
Of some invisible flower set
Sweetening it wondrously all through.
—Ah, live and bear a little yet
The grey days of your life,—O you—
Grieving in some unlovely gloom
A captive, in some martyrdom
Of most intolerable fate,
Wed for the heartless outer part
Where yet love never wed you;—late,
Perchance, it shall be, and your heart
Shall have closed every outer gate
That let love enter from the world:
O bear a little yet and wait:
Ere God hath ceased from you and furled
Away from you the great fair blue,
That paints eternity,—your true,
Your dreamed-of love shall come to you.
His face shall never have lost light
For all the dismal years: his smile
Shall dawn insuperably bright
Upon some long and lonely eve,
When, maybe, you have ceased some while
To weep and almost to believe.
And the night shall not come; but, then,
The endless undivided day
Of the long heaven, and mile on mile
Of a vast and delicious way
Shall gleam out from the ways of men
That hour before you: O to see
His great immortal look, shall be
A perfect end to the long years
Of waiting: O to fill your ears
With the world of each wondrous word,
Shall more than put away your tears;
For you shall know he never erred
That he came not to you: perchance,
Somewhat unearthly shall enhance
His head with glory, and unknown
So long a while, he shall have grown
Almost an angel, in the length
Of coming to you, heaping strength
To win you with! Ah, do you think
That, merely your immaculate
Lone excellence, should never link
Your soul to his, above all fate
Of days that hold you separate?
What is the fastness he shall shrink
From overcoming with some burst
That frees and makes you his, for whole
Requital of his soul athirst
In the dry distance for your soul?
—Though one hath chained up all the ways
In the fair world; though, nights and days
Fall down hard-fettered in some blank
Forgotten dungeon, where a clank
Follows each footstir and subdues
Each daunted word;—did Love ne'er use
His irresistible might and spell
In such-like way as I would tell
In this same story?—Yea, full oft;
And many a cruel fate is soft
With his rich secret, unbetrayed
In the deep dwelling he hath made
Within; and few have told or writ
The splendid simple prodigy
They knew; and none, believing it,
Have doubted love so secretly
Was foiling the hard world their strong
Oppression had kept hard so long.

No dame was fairer in the land
Than Bertha, loved of knight and bard;
And great was he who held her hand
But loved her not,—he was so hard
So churlish unto love,—and made
No softness for her, but betrayed
Her sweet bride's faith. He, of his pride
Presumptuous, lusted that the might
And wealth and territory wide,
Which he had gotten through unright
And stealthy dealing, or by strength
Tyrannously, were made sure plight
Unto some heir of his at length
—To be left full and unaccused
For ever; and no other dread,
Of trampled worth or right refused
Vexed the man now; but only this
Had power frustrating all his bliss,
That men should come when he was dead
And curse him, for a late redress
Of ancient wrong. Therefore he wed;
And thought most surely to possess
His utmost hope; but heaven foreshowed
Its meaning sternly to upbraid
His memory for rich costs unpaid,
And the whole life-long debt he owed
To vengeance. So the thing he prayed
Withholden was, and that he vowed
Unvisited. And, sorely gnawing
His patience inwardly, two years
He bore; at length, the third year drawing
Fast to its close, no better wears
His straining hope; and now with fears
Grown bitter, he complained and e'en
Condemned that gentle dame, and hid
No longer his ungenerous mien,
But daily taunted her and chid
Her gentleness.—

His crabbed age,
Fallen past reasonable hope
Of all renewal, would assuage
Its envy chiding her, and grope,
Unshamed, amid foul jealousies,
Gathering new resentments still.
He had a sister of like will,
Who with foul infamies and lies
Prompted his ready thoughts to ill:
She was a mean and heartless crone,
Whose life had never flowered in truth
With love or any balm of youth,
But preyed on envyings alone
And cankered to the very bone;
Yea, she quite hated the heart's tint
And the rose flush of lips and health
Of love's own life, accounting wealth
In these things as some dismal stain,
For souls to starve out by sheer stint
Of joy, accounting all men vain
And born for penances and pain.

Therefore, with every harsh endeavour
She did promote her brother's mood
To tyranny, devising ever
Cruel coercions, and such rude
Restraint as made poor Marie hate
Her youth, which constantly renewed
Sick sources to her bitter fate.

And one day, in all love's despite,
—For jealousy, and for great fear,
Lest the all-pitiable sight
Of her more perfect for each tear
Should sometime, with a sudden might
Moving men's hearts to learn the blame,
Plead of their villany; and then
The hideous thing begetting fame,
No honour should be theirs, but shame
And hate in all the hearts of men:
They made some most deceitful tale,—
How, for soul-penance sorely done,
Bertha was fallen sick and pale,
And ailed to be a space alone
And for a space be seen of none.

And, through their wiles, it did not fail
But she was moved to their deceiving,
And that herself performed the thing
With scarce a thought or murmuring,
Full of her early inward grieving.

And lo, they lured her from her bower,
And e'en from all the sick sweet ways
Her tears had worn, and weary days
Found full of soothings, faint and mute,
But fit as lullings of a lute;
And in a lone and distant tower
They left her wounded life to swoon
And wither, like a sapless flower,
Seen only of the midnight moon
Or of the sun at noon.

The chamber was most chill and drear
A place where you might die of fear;
And, from the casement's irksome height,
You scarce could snatch a mistful sight
Of the far lands of Brittany:
And other solace none was near,
Saving to moan and make complaint
All day and night, or else to hear
Some dolorous deed of monk or saint,
Some dull and hideous litany.

So did this lady live forlorn
A weary space of weary years;
And day to night and night to morn
No solace brought, save fruitless tears,
And a new fever of desire
Like to a famine at the heart
For death, or with some deadly fire
To burn the fair and youthful part
From the sick life: yea, there was given
No liberty in any wise,
Saving to pasture her faint eyes
Upon a blue sweet space in heaven.

Now all the tender things create
In earth and heaven did surely ache
Unceasingly for her sweet sake,
And pined for pity of her fate;
Yea, for the sun wept tears of amber;
And, stealing silently about
The shrouded lands, the stars did stain
Pure silver tears upon the plain;
And every night the moon did clamber
Up the steep dark, and o'er her chamber
Hung, like a great breast lolling out,
Heavy with pity of her pain.

Sometimes, in the long solitude,
Her thoughts would weary out their wings,
Despairing of the thing pursued,
And turn their fruitless flutterings
Back to her bosom void: aghast
With dreaming, sometimes, they traversed
Strange wastes where, touching mystic springs,
They gathered timorous forecast
Of futures; sometimes they rehearsed
Sad echoes of the vain sweet past.

Most when the sun was nigh its setting
And all the distant lands lay bright,
She would beguile her soul, forgetting
Its irremediable plight
With sorrow, hour after hour
Striving to reach some distant strain
Of horns, or see some goodly sight
Of hounds and men, or fill again
Her life with perfume of some flower.

Until one day—one summer day,
When birds were singing blithe and loud
In all the world, and not a cloud
Was anywhere in heaven: O day
Most sweet—most sorrowful! she lay
Half swooned upon her bed, and heard
The music under distant trees,
And the close pants of life that stirred
Around her prison, and the breeze
Making a long sweet sigh for pleasure,
And such a low and tender measure
In all the pulses of the air,
That she most bitterly at heart
Strove to be choked with her despair—
To be quite broken with some sigh—
And lay quite still and would not part
Her eyes dull lids, but longed to die,
Beseeching God the time were nigh.

And when the cold and withered maid
Came to her couch, and, in harsh tone,
Bade her to rise and be arrayed,
She feigned great weariness and prayed
She might be left all day alone;
Then lay and kept her eyes quite closed,
And spake not, feigning she reposed;
Till, with no tender uttering
Or pity for her ill, the crone
Departing, fell to muttering
Her crabbed litanies alone.
Then to her thoughts free way she gave
And did devote herself to die.
And with full yearning did apply
Her prayers to God; who—all to save
Her heart—for pity that not yet
Her time was come to die,—instead,
Gave her in deep sleep to forget
Her sorrow, dreaming she was dead
And lying happy in her grave,—
Feeling that little sighs did crave
To have her spirit back again,
And all as though a hand were fain,
Parting leaves here and there, to stir
With tremulous fingers seeking her:
Yea, feeling still the constant wane
Of all her sickness and life-pain,
And how the angels, while she slept,
For her continual healing, wept
Such tears as touched her night and day,
Washing her body all away.

But, while she lay and was at rest,
Dreaming this dream that she was dead,
The sweet contagion of her spread
Sweet fever in the airs at play
And pasture on her brow and breast;
Yearning through all that summer day
Soft summer longings to allay
In little ineffectual sips;
Till, chafing for perpetual thirst
The coverlet, they made a way,
To ravish with their sudden lips
Her luscious limbs, and with the burst
Half waking her, she did behold
What luxury and gracious mould
Of breast she had; what pure expanse
And most serene exuberance
Of limb, which languor of her mood
In all its fairness did enhance;
And how the slowly blushing blood
Lay in a sweet voluptuous waste
Throughout her body wan and chaste,
Or, wayward, with inconstant flow
Made blue tracks wantonly, to ooze
Adown each perfect limb, and lose
In such delicious wastes of snow
Its purple life.

Yea, she did gaze,
Still steeped in trance, and with half haze
About her, till a weary tide
—With slow recurrence brought again
Her conscious life, and sad amaze
Flooded her heart to see belied
The dream of death: O she was fain
To dream it back; but with her eyes
She read how little word of Death
Was written in her, and grew wise
—She thought—of some hard bitter will
Of God to her, that, not until
Some true embrace, some fruitful breath
Of love were come upon her breast,
Would he take ransom for her death,
To let her die and be at rest.

Then—while her memory confest
How she had heard the minstrels tell
That many a lady, so opprest
As she was, had been holpen well,
By miracle of God or man,
To solve her fate; and she began
To commune how, if she were pure
And altogether good in thought,
Such saving wonder might be wrought
For her,—that hour it did befall
That a vast rush of wing was heard,
And the great shadow of a bird
Came darkly over couch and wall.

And all before her heart, for fear
What sudden omen might be near,
Quicker beat thrice, there came, with noise
Of clashed plumes entering on poise
Of pinions sure, a falcon; fine
His mien and cresting; wholly keen
His gaze; all noble in the line
Of the straight sunbeams he was seen,
Fierce and without constraint or fault
Of wing, to enter straight, nor halt
Till forward pouncing, with a sound
His talons clashed like clang of steel
Sudden flung down, or spurrèd heel
From stirrup lighting on the ground.

Then, seeking, breathless at her heart,
Some imminent future, she apart
Held her white lips; and, all aghast,
Beheld at length how, from the cast
Constraint of plume and talon, rose
The spirit of a noble knight,
Perfect in bearing and bedight
With goodly armature and close
Raiment of mail. And soon the light
Fell from his eyes and with a flame
Touched her heart's snow: pleading he came,
And showed with what surpassing power
Of saintly labours he had earned
Of God this thing for which he yearned;
That he might come to her, what hour
Her own heart, so betrayed, should crave
And cry out for its sweet redress
Of fate, and that she too might have
Love for her love. Then, with a vow,
His faith in God he did confess
With all religion; and, to ease
In all things to the uttermost
Her soul, he prayed that God would show
Some perfect token of His peace:
So, at his prayer, the blessèd Host
Was presently made manifest
Miraculously, to attest
Him pure, and that he had God's peace.

But, when this holy thing was done,
She made no further doubt, nor strove
Longer to stay her heart from love;
But vowed that she would cleave alone
To this God gave her to redress
Her long restraint and barrenness,
And all the purpose of her years
And faith so long betrayed to tears.

Thereat her heart was wholly freed;
And, quickened straight in all its seed
With love's full tender lavishment,
Most rapturous fulfilment bore;
Yea, from recesses at its core,
Gushed forth, and sudden ravishment
In all her body showering,
Made sweet amends for the long drouth:
As doth some tardy luscious growth
Forced sudden into flowering
By late relenting of the South.

So, for a while, those lovers lay
Revelling in a sweet excess
Of restless rapture—lovers' way
Limb over limb; content to press
Each other's speechless lips, or twine
Each other's arms in listless play,
Or feed to a soft weariness
Each other's look,—then to combine
The fainting breath in a low sigh,
And swoon asleep and think to die
At once so blessedly; but pine
Full soon to ravish with new strength
Each other's lips and looks,—at length
Insatiate. It was a pain
To lose each moment, though there grew
Some further bliss; it was a pain
—Though perfectly her lover knew
His mistress' every tint and mood
Or flush that in her face could linger,
—Knew well, oft tenderly retraced
With rapturous and erring finger,
All fair ways fretted by the blood
And every dimple of her waist—
It was a pain one bliss to lose
Changing it for another bliss;
It was a pain one kiss to lose,
Yea, one kiss for another kiss.

So they prolonged their sweet enlacement
Till there was nothing left of day;
And the faint glimmer of the room,
Or a most scarce uncertain ray
From distant stars over the casement
Lit them each other's looks; and gloom
Was shed on them; but all their pleasure
Sufficed them still, with soft delay,
To stay their hearts, and, at love's leisure,
To heap them up great store and treasure
Out of each other's look and way,
Savour of lips, and voice, and aught
Of fair remainder for support
And solace in long hours of blight,
Long seedless fruitless hours unfraught
With any comfortable sight
Or touch of love: and when, compelled
At length, O miserably they quelled
Their rich souls, sundering them unquenched,
Most cruel each from other wrenched
Some uncompleted bliss.

Alas, poor Bertha could not keep
Dissembled quite her change at heart,
And that she did not pine or weep
Or languish more; she could not part
At sudden will from all the bliss
That lingered in her; nor efface
The dimple that full many a kiss
Left on her features or her brow
Too plainly, and in many a place
Upon her breast conceived of snow.

She could not quite disarm or tame
Her lips great fervour to deliver
Their burden of her lover's name,
Nor with whole patience sit and sever
Her thoughts from him, whene'er the dame
Plied her with long constraint or task
Of prayer: but she was fain for ever
In one of his known looks to bask
Silent; and with no perfect mask
Of meekness could perform her task,
Keeping at fast her utmost soul
And longing. And, whene'er an hour
Laxed that most rigorous control,
She would array the passionate power
Of all her heart, beseeching him,
Through the long silence with his name
Grown to a murmur reaching him
Perpetual: anon he came
Prone to her summons.

Long, with pain
Her tyrants, jealous, sought to guess
What sort of ravishment could bless
Her life so secretly; but vain
Was all their striving; and, with vile
Mistrust and most unquiet wonder
They marked her; ceasing not to ponder
Divers deceits. But, all the while,
The woman set herself with guile
To reach and ravel out the thing.
And this way: On one morn, deceived,
Bertha too easily believed
Her feigned departure, hastening
Her heart, scarce patient to abide
The door's pretended fastening,
And the safe sound of steps outside
Descending; then with rapturous start
Let loose her longing, flinging wide
The casement; and from all her heart
In mad foretaste precipitate
Summoned her Love.

And when they knew,
Embraced again, no thought of hate
And guile so near, but did renew
The long drained sources of their bliss
The woman lurked; and, not to miss
Her treacherous purposes, kept still,
Yea, saw and listened and kept still,
Stemming her vengeance, more to fill
The craving after, and make wise
Her way thereto; so she discerned
The mystic stratagem and guise
With aid of which that lover earned
His entry arduous; and perceived
Completely all; then, vowing harm
With cold and grave intent, she gave
Her brother tidings; and conceived
With him how best, and with what arm
Or ambush they should work to have
Their vengeance.

So, at length, they made
A weapon many-bladed, fell
And harsh with clustered points, most keen
And deadly: this—for trap, was laid
Most deftly, and its purpose well
Assured, with some sufficient screen,
Upon the window's ledge,—that none
Entering could escape or foil
Death manifold.

The thing was done
At night; and, long ere dawn, the toil
Was perfect. Then, without recoil
Of conscience, they arose and spared
No moment; but, with great turmoil,
And marshalling sounds of men and mail
Rife for some service, and such tale
Fitly conceived, they quite ensnared
Their captive—saying her lord was prest
To absence on a distant guest
Of warfare. So the thing prepared
Fell out; that when the distant arms
And clarions of the troop departing
Sent no more sound, and all alarms
Were far away a space, so spared
Favoring of heaven it seemed,—upstarting,
No further tolerant of the load
Of longing, she straightway unbound
Her heart, most urgently to goad
The lagging silence to create
Some presence or fulfilling sound,
For the known bliss importunate.

Then came the dawn with soft delays
Of light, and rapturous restraint
Reluctant; with flushed feet in ways
Voluptuous; full of rich reserve
For passionate noons, the golden taint
Revealing gradual: then elate,
Unerring, on surpassing curve
Of faultless wing, with furious aim
And constant zest, the falcon came
Impetuous; and all his fate,
Wretched and sweet of life and heart,
Wretched and sweet, delicious part
Of love and penalty most dread
Relentless drew him on.

And she
Instant her passionate purpose sped,
Redoubling urgent the decree
With all her heart's might; feeling too
Him all inevitable through
The distance reach her with a keen
Response of coming; feeling too
In all the harassed air between
The close beats of his wings; and still
The latest moment of reprieve
Bearing most niggardly; until,
With harsh plunge and uncertain heave
Of weak wings faltering to compel
His faint course, seeking her, he fell
Wounded of life; and sank and shed
His gentle blood upon the bed.

A little while he baffled Death;
And with incessant fluttering
Contended for some sweet delay,
That he might hold enough of breath
For one last passionate uttering;
But life fell fast within him, yea,
So that he made a piteous plead
Of looks all silently instead,
And panted all his heart away.

But she, in uttermost amaze
Painfully held was still intent
To see her lover's image raise
Its stained and dabbled mask; and couched
Expectant, with whole tortures pent
At heart a moment's respite, touched
Her full woe tenderly;—nay bent
Against it her full will and strength
Of soul resisting: but at length
It broke her quite; and she confessed
The silence and the grey cold hue,
And gathering death all wan and blue
That filmed the eye; anon, she pressed
Her bosom to that spoil of love,
That bitter wreck of all her love.

But lo, once more she was aware
Of something pleading sick and faint
About her heart,—a speechless plaint
Broken like sighs upon the air
Stirring her sorely; then a hand
Was laid upon her heart and wielded
Mysteriously her will; she planned
Nor purposed any course, but yielded
Meekly as in a dream. And so
She rose, all inwardly impressed,
And, from the cell with little toil
Released, she lingered not to go;
Soon the cold corridors confessed,
Whispering with a frozen wind,
Her steps: but her swift footsteps foil
Their echoes; and the conscious floors
Betray not, stricken dumb behind
Her feet; anon, the dismal doors,
Touched with her passionate touch, recoil,
Melted in all their irksome mail
Of bolts and iron frowns—recoil
Setting her free; and as they part
There cometh in a long low wail
—Half of the wind, and at her heart
The hand more heavy doth prevail.

And when before the moat she came,
The bridge stood ready in her way,
As though some traveller that day
Had passed quite recent; and the same
She thought, where on the fields she found
A narrow footway, like a stain
Of steps all recent on the ground.

Then through lands many, green and fair,
Woodlands and many a weary plain
And rugged mountain land, a league
Full hardily she fled; despair
Great in her heart against fatigue.
And ere the day yet threatened night,
She found a city silent and wide,
Silent and wide and full of light.
None stirred in all the street beside
Herself. She entered by the gate
A palace. There with barren state
The voiceless walls were tapestried
Damask and purple; sullen pride
Of pillar frowned; and shapes of stone
Stood ponderous, and all hard-eyed
Beheld her; and a long low moan
The waste winds made in this great dwelling
Desolate. Yet, her soul compelling,
No fear turned back her feet; but loud
The hollow place with harsh repeat
Bore witness of her ardent feet,—
Until she found a chamber proud
With pomp of funeral array:
A gilded gloom stupendous lay
Upon the walls; and a great shroud
In midst upon a regal bier,
With a vast pall upon the ground
Wide trailed: but on that bier she found
Her lover.

Still he seemed but near
His death; and told her how his soul
Choked with the slaughtered life, too weak
Had struggled for a voice to speak
Farewell, in words that should console
Her sorrow; and at length, bound back
To fill its twofold death, had yearned
And waited, praying God to slack
His extreme hand, and sorely earned
Prolonging death this sweet reprieve.

Anon, he bade her to believe
A piteous thing; praying thereby
That she would heal her heart, to grieve
Not too devotedly; and saying,
That surely he should never die
Quite to his inmost heart; but, staying
Deep in his grave her sorrow too
Would most torment him, throbbing through
His sleep and evermore delaying
His peace and keeping wide the wounds;
Yea, with sick longing to regain
Sweet pasts unfinished, full of sounds
Fallen and broken, would reproach
Pure present peace; bringing again
The faded endings of old pain
And crushed world-sweetness to encroach
In the old hollows of the heart;
So still some bitterness should burn
And burn, and he should never earn
His rest of God; ay, never part
Wholly from this great slough of life
And love turned to this dust, this death
Charred and yet chafing.

Never life
Shall light again this dust he said;
Nor can love ever with a breath
Touch me down there where I am laid:
O there shall be a load for this
Upon the very heart of fate;
And something too shall be to miss
From God's full purposes of bliss
And God Himself be all too late
To mend or mourn; for mine shall be
In earth a place most desolate,
Where never flower shall grow nor tree
Hang with sweet shadow,—desolate,
But very peaceful for a grave,
And very fitting so for me.
—Ah, who can say if love may have
Some heaven yet,—some second earth,
Some long revenge for this ill life,
Some sort of death redeeming birth?
—Ah, who can say?—I feel a strife
Of hands about my heart; I thrill
Beneath the shadows of new fates
That cover me; I have a chill
Like death; and yet some touch creates
A warmth like life too; I have sights
Most hard, of lights mingling with lights;
And yet, methinks, I feel but sleep,—
Smell a faint fragrance of dead leaves,
Or of the dust that I shall heap
About my heart: my heart believes
No more—no more than this, and cleaves
O dying, on thy hands my Love!

It was the midnight. His last look
Was fading in the fervid gloom;
And many an aching echo shook
The pauses, moving like a moan;
And dying words' sad monotone
Lasted about the silent room.
She was alone with all her doom;
But knew not yet she was alone;
For all these things, the looks, the words,
Thronged at her heart, foiling dim swords
That stood inevitable, keeping
A short space charmed with the slow heaping
Of thought, rich with each lingering sound,—
Ere all fell sickened into weeping
And the whole bitterness were found.

But soon, out of the distant street
Came murmurs; and the growing hiss
Of half-hushed voices; and a beat
Of steps and steps of other men;
And fate fell on her heart; and then
With all her load of broken bliss,
She fled to seek out some retreat
In all-abiding night.

The moon
Began all wearily to wane:
And she—she lay upon the plain
Weary, and fell into a swoon;
Then heard most dismally the toll
Of death-bells, heavy with the soul
Of him her lover; and his doom
Throbbing across the muffling gloom
Attained her to the very heart;
And gradual there, in every part,
Grew forth the desolating root
Of sorrow, piercing shoot by shoot
The soft soil where a rose's stain
Lay recent; and, where any bliss
Had been, wherever love had lain,
Grew now some seed and fruit of pain
Rich with the rotting memories.

Then a new wonder, like a thought
Strove with the death in her, and wrought
With inward accent promising
Half-sweet, an unimagined thing.

And at last from the bitter ground
She rose, and forward through the night
Her feet miraculously found
A constant guidance, and a might
To go and meet that future fate,
Which yet in such strange manner bound
Her soul to live indeed and wait.

If any saw her in her way,
Passing along the meadows gray
With deep unlifted shrouding still,
Surely they knew not; but beheld
Amazed and with a doubtful thrill:
And, by her shining robe that trailed
Through the dank night; and by the sheen
Of all her raiment, and hair seen
Wondrous, unsoiled, as though availed
No longer spell of day or night
On her; and by the rustlings light
That startled the deep earthly sleep
Along the meadows in her path;
—Surely she seemed to them some wraith
Walking the world on straight intent
Of unaccomplished doom, or sent
To work the purposes of God,
Whereof no man the knowledge hath.

So was there none in all her way
To shame her steps; and ere the day
Betrayed, her feet returning trode
The marble floor of her own hall
And silent passage ancestral
Of that cold place where she abode.

She might not speak at all nor weep;
But such great mystery did cling
Upon her face, that seemed to keep
Knowledge of some most holy thing,
No man found ways to try her more
With base reproof or questioning.

And lo, in due time, and before
Her grief of secret thought was done,
With many an inward holy thrill
And wondrous sign of grace begun
Already plain, God did fulfil
His miracle of love ere long;
So that she bore a goodly Son;
And lying showed each evil tongue
That spoke her barren of His grace.

Her child—he had a wondrous face,
In which was written many a dear
And lovely word with God's hand clear,
In lineament that she could trace
More and more through the smiling grace,
To many a noble thing foretold
Of help and blessedness to her:
So she would read, for days and days,
His holy smiling that consoled
Her heart, and bade her thoughts to err
Free in all sweet and hopeful ways:

And afterward there grew much praise
Of him, for he is named in lays
Yvenec, the Deliverer.