Kitabı oku: «Accolon of Gaul, with Other Poems», sayfa 5

DEAD AND GONE

I

 
I  wot well o' his going
To think in flowers fair; —
His a right kind heart, my dear,
To give the grass such hair.
 

II

 
I wot well o' his lying
Such nights out in the cold, —
To list the cricket's crick, my sweet,
To see the glow-worm's gold.
 

III

 
An mine eyes be laughterful,
Well may they laugh, I trow, —
Since two dead eyes a yesternight
Gazed in them sad enow.
 

IV

 
An my heart make moan and ache,
Well may it dree, I'm sure; —
He is dead and gone, my love,
And it is beggar poor.
 

A MABINOGI

 
IN samite sark yclad was she;
And that fair glimmerish band of gold
Which crowned long, savage locks of hair
In the moon brent cold.
 
 
She with big eyeballs gloomed and glowered,
And lightly hummed some Elfin's song,
And one could naught save on her stare
And fare along.
 
 
Yea; sad and lute-like was that song
And softly said its mystery;
Which quaintly sang in elden verse
"Thy love I'll be."
 
 
And oft it said: "I love thee true,
Sir Ewain, champion of the fair."
And never wist he what a witch
Was that one there.
 
 
And never wist he that a witch
Had bound him with her wily hair,
Eke with dark art had ta'en his heart
To slay him there.
 
 
And all his soul did wax amort
To stars, to hills, to slades, to streams,
And it but held that sorceress fair
As one of dreams.
 
 
And now he kens some castle gray
Wild turrets ivied, in the moon,
Old, where through woodlands foaming on
A torrent shone…
 
 
In its high hall full twenty knights
With visors barred all sternly stand;
The following of some gracious brave,
Lord of the land.
 
 
And lo! when that dim damosel
Moved down the hall, they louted low;
And she was queen of all that band,
That dame of snow.
 
 
Now on that knight she stared eftsoons,
And cried on high unto her crew,
"Behold! Sir Knights, the dastard brave
Your king that slew."
 
 
And all those heathen knights wox wild
Attonce; and all against him drave;
Long battle blades and daggers bright
Aloft did wave.
 
 
The press on him puissant bare
And smote him to the rush-strown earth; —
Tall, tall o'er all that Fairy rose
Aloud with mirth.
 

GENIUS LOCI

I

 
WHAT deity for dozing laziness
Devised the lounging coziness of this
Enchanted nook? – and how! – did I distress
His musing ease that fled but now, or his
Laughed frolic with some forest-sister, fair
As those wild hill-carnations are and rare?
Too true, alas! – Feel! the wild moss is warm
And moist with late reclining, as the palm
Of what hot Hamadryad, who, a-nap,
Props her hale cheek upon it, while her arm
Weak wind-flowers bury; in her hair the balm
Of a whole Spring of blossoms and of sap?
 

II

 
See, how the dented moss, that pads the hump
Of these distorted roots, elastic springs
From that god's late departure; lump by lump,
Pale tufts impressed twitch loose in nervous rings,
As crowding stars qualm thro' gray evening skies.
Indulgence grant thou my profane surprise,
Pray! – then to dream where thou didst dream before,
Benevolent! … here where the veiny leaves
Bask broad the fuzzy bosoms of their hands
O'er wistful waters: 'neath this sycamore,
Smooth, giraffe-brindled, where each ripple weaves
A twinkling quiver as of marching bands
 

III

 
Of Elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold,
Split spilled the scaley sunbeams wrinkled off.
What brought thee here? – This wind that steals the old
Weird legends from the forests, with a scoff
To laugh them thro' their beards? Or, in those weeds,
The hermit brook so busy with his beads? —
How many Aves, Paters doth he say
In one droned minute on his rosary
Of bubbles – wot'st thou? – Pucker-eyed didst mark
Yon lank hag-tapers, yellow by yon way,
A haggard company of seven? – See
How dry swim by such curled brown bits of bark?
 

IV

 
Didst mark the ghostly gold of this grave, still,
Conceited minnow thro' these twisted roots,
Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill,
Dull-slumbering here? Or did those insect flutes —
Sleepy with sunshine – buzz thee that forlorn
Tale of Tithonus and the bashful Morn?
Until two tears gleamed in the stealing stream
Trembling its polish o'er the winking grail? —
Nay! didst perplex thee with some poet plan
To drug this air with beauty to make dream, —
Ah, discreet Cunning, watching in yon vale! —
Me, wildwood-wandered from the marts of Man!