Jonquil And Fleur-de-lys
i
Jonquil was a shepherd lad,
White he was as the curded cream,
Hair like the buttercups he had,
And wet green eyes like a full chalk stream.
ii
His teeth were as white as the stones that lie
Down in the depths of the sun-bright river,
And his lashes danced like a dragon-fly
With drops on the gauzy wings that quiver.
iii
His lips were as red as round ripe cherries,
And his delicate cheek's and his rose-pink neck
Were stained with the colour of dog-rose berries
When they lie on the snow like a crimson fleck.
iv
His feet were all stained with the cowslips and grass
To amber and verdigris,
And through his folds one day did pass
The young prince Fleur-de-lys.
v
Fleur-de-lys was the son of the king.
He was as white as an onyx stone,
His hair was curled like a daffodil ring,
And his eyes were like gems in the queen's blue zone.
vi
His teeth were as white as the white pearls set
Round the thick white throat of the queen in the hall,
And his lashes were like the dark silk net
That she binds her yellow hair withal.
vii
His lips were as red as the red rubies
The king's bright dagger-hilt that deck,
And pale rose-pink as the amethyst is
Were his delicate cheeks and his rose-pink neck.
viii
His feet were all shod in shoes of gold,
And his coat was as gold as a blackbird's bill is,
With jewel on jewel manifold,
And wrought with a pattern of golden lilies.
ix
When Fleur-de-lys espied Jonquil
He was as glad as a bird in May ;
He tripped right swiftly a-down the hill,
And called to the shepherd boy to play.
x
This fell out ere the sheep-shearing,
That these two lads did sport and toy,
Fleur-de-lys the son of the king,
And sweet Jonquil the shepherd boy.
xi
And after they had played awhile,
Thereafter they to talking fell,
And full an hour they did beguile
While each his state and lot did tell.
xii
For Jonquil spake of the little sheep,
And the tender ewes that know their names,
And he spake of his wattled hut for sleep,
And the country sports and the shepherds' games.
xiii
And he plucked a reed from the edge that girds
The river bank, and with his knife
Made a pipe, with a breath like the singing birds
When they flute to their loves in a musical strife.
xiv
And he told of the night so long and still
When he lay awake till he heard the feet
Of the goat-foot god coming over the hill,
And the rustling sound as he passed through the wheat.
xv
And Fleur-de-lys told of the king and the court,
And the stately dames and the slender pages,
Of his horse and his hawk and his mimic fort,
And the silent birds in their golden, cages.
xvi
And the jewelled sword with the damask blade
That should be his in his fifteenth spring ;
And the silver sound that the gold horns made,
And the tourney lists and the tilting ring.
xvii
And after that they did devise
For mirth and sport, that each should wear
The other's clothes, and in this guise
Make play each other's parts to bear.
xviii
Whereon they stripped off all their clothes,
And when they stood up in the sun,
They were as like as one white rose
On one green stalk, to another one.
xix
And when Jonquil as a prince was shown
And Fleur-de-lys as a shepherd lad,
Their mothers' selves would not have known
That each the other's habit had.
xx
And Jonquil walked like the son of a king
With dainty steps and proud haut look ;
And Fleur-de-lys, that sweet youngling,
Did push and paddle his feet in the brook.
xxi
And while they made play in this wise,
Unto them all in haste did run,
Two lords of the court, with joyful cries,
That long had sought the young king's son.
xxii
And to Jonquil they reverence made
And said, ' My lord, we are come from the king,
Who is sore vexed that thou hast strayed
So far without a following.'
xxiii
Then unto them said Fleur-de-lys
' You do mistake, my lords, for know
That I am the son of the king, and this
Is sweet Jonquil, my playfellow.'
xxiv
Whereat one of these lords replied,
' Thou lying knave, I'll make thee rue
Such saucy words.' But Jonquil cried,
' Nay, nay, my lord, 'tis even true.'
xxv
Whereat these lords were sore distressed,
And one made answer bending knee,
' My lord the prince is pleased to jest.'
But Jonquil answered, ' Thou shalt see.'
xxvi
Sure never yet so strange a thing
As this before was seen,
That a shepherd was thought the son of a king,
And a prince a shepherd boy to have been.
xxvii
' Now mark me well, my noble lord,
A shepherd's feet go bare and cold,
Therefore they are all green from the sward,
And the buttercup makes a stain of gold.
xxviii
' That I am Jonquil thus thou shalt know,
And that this be very Fleur-de-lys
If his feet be like the driven snow,
And mine like the amber and verdigris.'
xxix
He lifted up the shepherd's frock
That clothed the prince, and straight did show
That his naked feet all under his smock
Were whiter than the driven snow.
xxx
He doffed the shoes and the clothes of silk
That he had gotten from Fleur-de-lys,
And all the rest was as white as milk,
But his feet were like amber and verdigris.
xxxi
With that they each took back his own,
And when his second change was done,
As a shepherd boy was Jonquil shown
And Fleur-de-lys the king's true son.
xxxii
By this the sun was low in the heaven,
And Fleur-de-lys must ride away,
But ere he left, with kisses seven,
He vowed to come another day.
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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Related quotes
Canzonet
I have no store
Of gryphon-guarded gold;
Now, as before,
Bare is the shepherd's fold.
Rubies nor pearls
Have I to gem thy throat;
Yet woodland girls
Have loved the shepherd's note.
Then pluck a reed
And bid me sing to thee,
For I would feed
Thine ears with melody,
Who art more fair
Than fairest fleur-de-lys,
More sweet and rare
Than sweetest ambergris.
What dost thou fear?
Young Hyacinth is slain,
Pan is not here,
And will not come again.
No horned Faun
Treads down the yellow leas,
No God at dawn
Steals through the olive trees.
Hylas is dead,
Nor will he e'er divine
Those little red
Rose-petalled lips of thine.
On the high hill
No ivory dryads play,
Silver and still
Sinks the sad autumn day.
poem by Oscar Wilde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fleur D'automne
Fleur jaune, fleur triste, fleur pâle;
Le soleil t'a brûlée et la pluie t'a échaudée;
Fleur mûre, fleur maturée, fleur immaculée;
Malgré tout, tu as gardé ta beauté phénoménale.
Les feuilles à moitié jaunes et à moitié vertes
Essaient de porter tes belles couleurs.
La nature et la faune sont inconsolables et en pleurs,
Les écureuils et les rossignols sont en état d'alerte.
Fleur d'une de la plus sombre et romantique saison,
Laisse-moi admirer ta beauté exceptionnelle
Et savourer encore ta douce et délicieuse salive.
Fleur, je viendrai, ce soir, m'étendre sur ton gazon.
Viens admirer les étoiles, les étincelles,
Les branches et les tiges abandonnées dans la rive.
poem by Hebert Logerie
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The Ballad Of Saint Vitus
Vitus came tripping over the grass
When all the leaves in the trees were green,
Through the green meadows he did pass
On the day he was full seventeen.
The lark was singing up over his head,
As he went by so lithe and fleet,
And the flowers danced in white and red
At the treading of his nimble feet.
His neck was as brown as the brown earth is
When first the young brown plough-boys delve it,
And his lips were as red as mulberries
And his eyes were like the soft black velvet.
His silk brown hair was touched with bronze,
And his brown cheeks had the tender hue
That like a dress the brown earth dons
When the pink carnations bloom anew.
He was slim as the reeds that sway all along
The banks of the lake, and as straight as a rush,
And as he passed he sang a song,
And his voice was as sweet as the voice of a thrush,
He sang of the Gardens of Paradise,
And the light of God that never grows dim,
And the cherubim with their radiant eyes,
And the rainbow wings of the Seraphim.
And the host as countless as all days,
That worships there, and ceases not,
Singing and praising God always,
With lute and flute and angelot.
And the blessed light of Mary's face
As she sits among these pleasant sounds,
And Christ that is the Prince of Grace,
And the five red flowers that be His wounds.
And so he went till he came to the doors
Of the ivory house of his father the King,
And all through the golden corridors,
As he passed along, he ceased to sing.
But a pagan priest had seen him pass,
And heard his voice as he went along
Through the fields of the bending grass, -
And he heard the words of the holy song.
And he sought the King where he sat on his throne,
And the tears of wrath were in his eyes,
And he said, ' O Sire, be it known
That thy son singeth in this wise ;
'Of the blessed light of Mary's face
As she sits amidst sweet pleasant sounds,
And how that Christ is the Prince of Grace,
And hath five flowers that be His wounds.'
And when the King had heard this thing,
His brow grew black as a winter night,
And he bade the pages seek and bring
Straightway the prince before his sight.
And Vitus came before the King,
And the King cried out, ' I pray thee, son,
Sing now the song that thou didst sing
When thou cam'st through the fields anon.'
And the face of the prince grew white as milk,
And he answered nought, but under the band
That held his doublet of purple silk
Round his slight waist, he thrust his hand.
And the King picked up a spear, and cried,
' What hast thou there ? by the waters of Styx,
Speak or I strike,' and the boy replied,
' Sweet Sire, it is a crucifix.' .
And the King grew black with rage and grief,
And for a full moment he spake no word.
And the spear in his right hand shook like a leaf,
And the vein on his brow was a tight blue cord.
Then he laughed and said, in bitter scorn,
' Take me this Christian fool from my sight,
Lock him in the turret till the morn,
And let him dance alone to-night.
'He shall sit in the dark while the courtly ball
All the gay night sweeps up and down
On the polished floor of the golden hall,
And thus shall he win his martyr's crown.'
Thus spake the King, and the courtiers smiled,
And Vitus hung his head for shame ;
And he thought, ' I am punished like a child,
That would have died for Christ's dear Name.'
And so 'twas done, and on that night,
While silk and sword, with fan and flower,
Danced in the hall in the golden light,
Prince Vitus sat in the lone dark tower.
But the King bethought him, and was moved,
Ere the short summer night was done,
And his heart's blood yearned for the son he loved,
His dainty prince, his only son.
And all alone he climbed the stair,
With the tired feet of a sceptred King,
And came to the door, and lo ! he was 'ware
Of the sound of flute and lute-playing.
And as the King stood there amazed,
The iron door flew open wide,
And the King fell down on his knees as he gazed
At the wondrous thing he saw inside.
For the room was filled with a soft sweet light
Of ambergris and apricot,
And round the walls were angels bright,
With lute and flute and angelot.
On lute and angelot they played,
With their gold heads bowed upon the strings,
And the soft wind that the slim flutes made,
Stirred in the feathers of their wings.
And in the midst serene and sweet
With God's light on his countenance
Was Vitus, with his gold shod feet,
Dancing in a courtly dance.
And round him were archangels four,
Michael, who guards God's citadel,
Raphael, whom children still implore,
And Gabriel and Uriel.
Thus long ago was Christ's behest,
And the saving grace that His red wounds be,
Unto this king made manifest,
And all his land of Sicily.
God sits within the highest Heaven,
His mercy neither tires nor faints,
All good gifts that may be given,
He gives unto His holy Saints.
This was the joy that Vitus gat;
To dance with Angels knee by knee,
Before he came to man's estate :
God send us all such Company.
Amen.
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Perkin Warbeck
i
At Turney in Flanders I was born
Fore-doomed to splendour and sorrow,
For I was a king when they cut the corn,
And they strangle me to-morrow.
ii
Oh ! why was I made so red and white,
So fair and straight and tall ?
And why were my eyes so blue and bright,
And my hands so white and small ?
iii
And why was my hair like the yellow silk,
And curled like the hair of a king ?
And my body like the soft new milk
That the maids bring from milking ?
iv
I was nothing but a weaver's son,
I was born in a weaver's bed ;
My brothers toiled and my sisters spun,
And my mother wove for our bread.
v
I was the latest child she had,
And my mother loved me the best.
She would laugh for joy and anon be sad
That I was not as the rest.
vi
For my brothers and sisters were black as the gate
Whereby I shall pass to-morrow,
But I was white and delicate,
And born to splendour and sorrow.
vii
And. my father the weaver died full soon,
But my mother lived for me ;
And I had silk doublets and satin shoon
And was nurtured tenderly.
viii
And the good priests had much joy of me,
For I had wisdom and wit;
And there was no tongue or subtlety
But I could master it.
ix
And when I was fourteen summers old
There came an English knight,
With purple cloak and spurs of gold,
And sword of chrysolite.
x
He rode through the town both sad and slow,
And his hands lay in his lap ;
He wore a scarf as white as the snow,
And a snow-white rose in his cap.
xi
And he passed me by in the market-place,
And he reined his horse and stared,
And I looked him fair and full in the face,
And he stayed with his head all bared.
xii
And he leaped down quick and bowed his knee,
And took hold on my hand,
And he said, ' Is it ghost or wraith that I see,
Or the White Rose of England .? '
xiii
And I answered him in the Flemish tongue,
' My name is Peter Warbeckke,
From Katharine de Faro I am sprung,
And my father was John Osbeckke.
xiv
' My father toiled and weaved with his hand
And bare neither sword nor shield
And the White Rose of fair England
Turned red on Bosworth field.'
xv
And he answered, ' What matter for anything ?
For God hath given to thee
The voice of the king and the face of the king,
And the king thou shalt surely be.'
xvi
And he wrought on me till the vesper bell,
And I rode forth out of the town :
And I might not bid my mother farewell,
Lest her love should seem more than a crown.
xvii
And the sun went down, and the night waxed black,
And the wind sang wearily ;
And I thought on my mother, and would have gone back,
But he would not suffer me.
xviii
And we rode, and we rode, was it nine days or three ?
Till we heard the bells that ring
For ' my cousin Margaret of Burgundy,'
And I was indeed a king.
xix
For I had a hundred fighting men '
To come at my beck and call,
And I had silk and fine linen
To line my bed withal.
xx
They dressed me all in silken dresses,
And little I wot did they reck
Of the precious scents for my golden tresses,
And the golden chains for my neck.
xxi
And all the path for ' the rose ' to walk
Was strewn with flowers and posies,
I was the milk-white rose of York,
The rose of all the roses.
xxii
And the Lady Margaret taught me well,
Till I spake without lisping
Of Warwick and Clarence and Isabel,
And ' my father ' Edward the King.
xxiii
And I sailed to Ireland and to France,
And I sailed to fair Scotland,
And had much honour and pleasaunce,
And Katharine Gordon's hand.
xxiv
And after that what brooks it to say
Whither I went or why ?
I was as loath to leave my play
And fight, as now to die.
xxv
For I was not made for wars and strife
And blood and slaughtering,
I was but a boy that loved his life,
And I had not the heart of a king.
xxvi
Oh ! why hath God dealt so hardly with me,
That such a thing should be done,
That a boy should be born with a king's body
And the heart of a weaver's son ?
xxvii
I was well pleased to be at the court,
Lord of the thing that seems;
It was merry to be a prince for sport,
A king in a kingdom of dreams.
xxviii
But ever they said I must strive and fight
To wrest away the crown,
So I came to England in the night
And I warred on Exeter town.
xxix
And the King came up with a mighty host
And what could I do but fly ?
I had three thousand men at the most,
And I was most loath to die.
xxx
And they took me and brought me to London town,
And I stood where all men might see ;
I, that had well-nigh worn a crown,
In a shameful pillory !
xxxi
And I cried these words in the English tongue,
' I am Peter Warbeckke,
From Katharine de Faro I am sprung
And my father was John Osbeckke.
xxxii
' My father toiled and weaved with his hand,
And bare neither sword nor shield ;
And the White Rose of fair England
Turned red on Bosworth field.'
xxxiii
And they gave me my life, but they held me fast
Within this weary place ;
But I wrought on my guards ere a month was past,
With my wit and my comely face.
xxxiv
And they were ready to set me free,
But when it was almost done,
And I thought I should gain the narrow sea '
And look on the face of the sun,
xxxv
The lord of the tower had word of it,
And, alas! for my poor hope,
For this is the end of my face and my wit
That to-morrow I die by the rope.
xxxvi
And the time draws nigh and the darkness closes,
And the night is almost done.
What had I to do with their roses,
I, the poor weaver's son ?
xxxvii
hey promised me a bed so rich
And a queen to be my bride,
And I have gotten a narrow ditch
And a stake to pierce my side.
xxxviii
They promised me a kingly part
And a crown my head to deck,
And I have gotten the hangman's cart
And a hempen cord for my neck.
xxxix
Oh ! I would that I had never been born,
To splendour and shame and sorrow,
For it's ill riding to grim Tiborne,
Where I must ride to-morrow.
xl
I shall dress me all in silk and scarlet,
And the hangman shall have my ring,
For though I be hanged like a low-born varlet
They shall know I was once a king.
xli
And may I not fall faint or sick
Till I reach at last to the goal,
And I pray that the rope may choke me quick
And Christ receive my soul.
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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The Beds of Fleur-de-Lys
HIGH-LYING, sea-blown stretches of green turf,
Wind-bitten close, salt-colored by the sea,
Low curve on curve spread far to the cool sky,
And, curving over them as long they lie,
Beds of wild fleur-de-lys.
Wide-flowing, self-sown, stealing near and far,
Breaking the green like islands in the sea;
Great stretches at your feet, and spots that bend
Dwindling over the horizon’s end,—
Wild beds of fleur-de-lys.
The light keen wind streams on across the lifts,
Their wind of western springtime by the sea;
The close turf smiles unmoved, but over her
Is the far-flying rustle and sweet stir
In beds of fleur-de-lys.
And here and there across the smooth, low grass
Tall maidens wander, thinking of the sea;
And bend, and bend, with light robes blown aside,
For the blue lily-flowers that bloom so wide,—
The beds of fleur-de-lys.
poem by Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman
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The Little HandMaiden
The King's son walks in the garden fair-
Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!
He little knows for his toil and care,
That the bride is gone and the bower is bare.
Put on garments of white, my maidens!
The sun shines bright through the casement high-
Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!
The little handmaid, with a laughing eye,
Looks down on the king's son, strolling by.
Put on garments of white, my maidens!
'He little knows that the bride is gone,
And the Earl knows little as he;
She is fled with her lover afar last night
And the King's son is left to me.'
And back to her chamber with velvety step
The little handmaid did glide,
And a gold key took from her bosom sweet,
And opened the great chests wide.
She bound her hair with a band of blue,
And a garland of lilies sweet;
And put on her delicate silken shoes,
With roses at her feet.
She clad her body in spotless white,
With a girdle as red as blood.
The glad white raiment her beauty bound,
As the sepels blind the bud.
And round and round her white neck she flung
A necklace of sapphires blue;
On one white finger of either hand
A shining ring she drew.
And down the stairway and out of the door
She glided, as soft and light,
As an airy tuft of a thistle seed
Might glide through the grasses bright.
And into the garden sweet she stole-
The little birds carolled loud-
Her beauty shone as a star might shine
In the rift of the morning cloud.
The King's son walked in the garden fair,
And the little handmaiden came,
Through the midst of a shimmer of roses red,
Like a sunbeam through a flame.
The King's son marvelled, his heart leaped up,
'And art thou my bride?' said he,
'For, North or South, I have never beheld
A lovelier maid than thee.'
'And dost thou love me?' the little maid cried,
'A fine King's son, I wis!'
And the king's son took her with both his hands,
And her ruddy lips did kiss.
And the little maid laughed till the beaded tears,
Ran down in a silver rain.
'O foolish King's son!' and she clapped her hands,
Till the gold rings rang again.
'O King's son, foolish and fooled art thou,
For a goodly game is played:
Thy bride is away with her lover last night,
And I am her little handmaid.'
And the King's son sware a great oath, said he-
Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!
'If the Earl's fair daughter a traitress be,
The little handmaid is enough for me.'
Put on garments of white, my maidens!
The King's son walks in the garden fair-
Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!
And the little handmaiden walketh there,
But the old Earl pulleth his beard for care.
Put on garments of white, my maidens!
poem by Archibald Lampman
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La Tombe Dit À La Rose (The Grave And The Rose)
La tombe dit à la rose :
- Des pleurs dont l'aube t'arrose
Que fais-tu, fleur des amours ?
La rose dit à la tombe :
- Que fais-tu de ce qui tombe
Dans ton gouffre ouvert toujours ?
La rose dit : - Tombeau sombre,
De ces pleurs je fais dans l'ombre
Un parfum d'ambre et de miel.
La tombe dit : - Fleur plaintive,
De chaque âme qui m'arrive
Je fais un ange du ciel !
The Grave and the Rose
The Grave said to the Rose,
'What of the dews of dawn,
Love's flower, what end is theirs?'
'And what of spirits flown,
The souls whereon doth close
The tomb's mouth unawares?'
The Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said, 'In the shade
From the dawn's tears is made
A perfume faint and strange,
Amber and honey sweet.'
'And all the spirits fleet
Do suffer a sky-change,
More strangely than the dew,
To God's own angels new,'
The Grave said to the Rose.
poem by Victor Hugo
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Autumn Flower
Yellow flower, grieving flower, pale flower,
You were burnt by the sun and the hot rain.
Ripe flower, matured flower, immaculate flower,
You've nevertheless kept your phenomenal beauty sane.
The half-yellow and the half-green leaves
Are trying to mimic your beautiful color.
Mother Nature and Fauna are profusely in tears,
And Squirrel and Nightingale in a state of horror.
Flower of one of the most somber and romantic seasons,
Your exceptional beauty merits great admirations
And your sweet and delicious sap is beyond words.
Flower, I'm coming tonight to rest on your turfs,
To contemplate the stars and the sparks,
The abandoned branches and the rods floating in the parks.
Copyright 1997 Hebert Logerie
Author of Sparkles of Love recently published by Xlibris.com.
Fleur d'automne
Fleur jaune, fleur triste, fleur pâle;
Le soleil t'a brûlée et la pluie t'a échaudée;
Fleur mûre, fleur maturée, fleur immaculée;
Malgré tout, tu as gardé ta beauté phénoménale.
Les feuilles à moitié jaunes et à moitié vertes
Essaient de porter tes belles couleurs.
La nature et la faune sont inconsolables et en pleurs,
Les écureuils et les rossignols sont en état d'alerte.
Fleur d'une de la plus sombre et romantique saison,
Laisse-moi admirer ta beauté exceptionnelle
Et savourer encore ta douce et délicieuse salive.
Fleur, je viendrai, ce soir, m'étendre sur ton gazon.
Viens admirer les étoiles, les étincelles,
Les branches et les tiges abandonnées dans la rive.
poem by Hebert Logerie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The King's Daughter
WE WERE ten maidens in the green corn,
Small red leaves in the mill-water:
Fairer maidens never were born,
Apples of gold for the king’s daughter.
We were ten maidens by a well-head,
Small white birds in the mill-water:
Sweeter maidens never were wed,
Rings of red for the king’s daughter.
The first to spin, the second to sing,
Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;
The third may was a goodly thing,
White bread and brown for the king’s daughter.
The fourth to sew and the fifth to play,
Fair green weed in the mill-water;
The sixth may was a goodly may,
White wine and red for the king’s daughter.
The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,
Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;
The ninth had gold work on her head,
Honey in the comb for the king’s daughter.
The ninth had gold work round her hair,
Fallen flowers in the mill-water;
The tenth may was goodly and fair,
Golden gloves for the king’s daughter.
We were ten maidens in a field green,
Fallen fruit in the mill-water;
Fairer maidens never have been,
Golden sleeves for the king’s daughter.
By there comes the king’s young son,
A little wind in the mill-water;
“Out of ten maidens ye’ll grant me one,”
A crown of red for the king’s daughter.
“Out of ten mays ye’ll give me the best,”
A little rain in the mill-water;
A bed of yellow straw for all the rest,
A bed of gold for the king’s daughter.
He’s ta’en out the goodliest,
Rain that rains in the mill-water;
A comb of yellow shell for all the rest,
A comb of gold for the king’s daughter.
He’s made her bed to the goodliest,
Wind and hail in the mill-water;
A grass girdle for all the rest,
A girdle of arms for the king’s daughter.
He’s set his heart to the goodliest,
Snow that snows in the mill-water;
Nine little kisses for all the rest,
An hundredfold for the king’s daughter.
He’s ta’en his leave at the goodliest,
Broken boats in the mill-water;
Golden gifts for all the rest,
Sorrow of heart for the king’s daughter.
“Ye’ll make a grave for my fair body,”
Running rain in the mill-water;
“And ye’ll streek my brother at the side of me,”
The pains of hell for the king’s daughter.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Champion
Young and a conqueror, once on a day,
Wild white Winter rode out this way;
With his sword of ice and his banner of snow
Vanquished the Summer and laid her low.
Winter was young then, young and strong;
Now he is old, he has reigned too long.
He shall be routed, he shall be slain;
Summer shall come to her own again!
See the champion of Summer wake
Little armies in field and brake:
'Cruel and cold has King Winter been;
Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!'
First the aconite dots the mould
With little round cannon-balls of gold;
Then, to help in the winter's rout,
Regiments of crocuses march out.
See the swords of the flag-leaves shine;
See the shield of the celandine,
And daffodil lances green and keen,
To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen.
Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings
Banners that mock at defeated kings;
And wherever the green of the new grass peers,
See the array of victorious spears.
Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound
Over the garden's battle-ground,
And lovely ladies crowd out to see
The long procession of victory.
Little daisies with snowy frills,
Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils,
Primrose and cowslip, friends well met
With white wood-sorrel and violet.
Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold;
Thousands of buttercups licked with gold;
Budding hedges and woods and trees -
Spring brings freedom and life to these.
Then the triumphant Spring shall ride
Over the happy countryside;
Deep in the woods the birds shall sing:
'The King is dead--long live the King!'
But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight;
He will ride on through the meadows bright
Till at Summer's feet he shall light him down
And lay at her feet the royal crown.
She will lean down where the roses twine
Between the may-trees' silver shine,
And look in the eyes of the dying knight
Who led his army and won her fight.
She will stoop to his lips and say,
'Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!'
While he smiles and sighs her arms between
And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Snow-White (Part 1)
Hers were the beautiful blue eyes and the black long hair,
She watched her blood dropp freezing to burn in the air.
Her pale lips were keeping the mark of her love's glow,
She wanted a child having the skin as white as the snow,
The hair as black as ebony and the lips as red as the blood.
That red on that white looked as beautiful as a flower bud.
She was sewing and watching the ebony of her window's frame.
An angel became visible in the air to tell her the child's name.
''Light up this love, my Lord, and give me this child of light
Unbearable is this pain of mine, light up my soul and my sight.''
Coming up the stairs, the king saw this and he told his queen,
'This white angel is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen! ''
The queen's heart used to be like a little book being unread,
But in front of her husband, it has become an open thread.
He tenderly kissed her, ''Your broken heart is no longer dead,
Because for Snow White on the snow your secret has bled.''
When she gave birth to her child, the sun rose to be so bright
And everything in the castle could be seen in the holy light,
But when the king came to see them, he heard only the sighs.
When he saw his dead queen, sad tears flooded his black eyes.
While he was living with his child being a lonely sad father,
The king thought to bring to little Snow White a new mother.
''Light up this life, my Lord, because I have only fears and sighs,
Change my fate, because I need a new morn in my sad eyes! ''
He married again, but the queen's heart was mercilessly beating.
She was like a dangerous snake and poisoned was her greeting.
Her sarcastic lips were always keeping the mark of her hatred,
Her powers were hidden, because for her the devil was sacred.
She kept her frozen air, although the snow was melting in Spring,
Her words could remain suspended in the air to freeze everything.
‘'Mirror, dear Mirror on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all?
‘'You, my queen, are fairest of all'', echoed the mirror in the hall.
The Snow White grew up becoming more beautiful than the queen,
The king told her, 'You're the most beautiful child I have ever seen! ''
When the mirror told the queen, ‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true.
She added, ''Little Snow-White is still a thousand times fairer than you.''
The king started seriously to think of the passion they had known
‘Cause the queen's self-satisfaction and insensibility have grown.
He realized that it's a wretchedness to continue sharing their bed.
He wanted to open a dialog with her, but the words left all unsaid.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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King Solomon and the Ants
Out from Jerusalem
The king rode with his great
War chiefs and lords of state,
And Sheba's queen with them;
Comely, but black withal,
To whom, perchance, belongs
That wondrous Song of songs,
Sensuous and mystical,
Whereto devout souls turn
In fond, ecstatic dream,
And through its earth-born theme
The Love of loves discern.
Proud in the Syrian sun,
In gold and purple sheen,
The dusky Ethiop queen
Smiled on King Solomon.
Wisest of men, he knew
The languages of all
The creatures great or small
That trod the earth or flew.
Across an ant-hill led
The king's path, and he heard
Its small folk, and their word
He thus interpreted:
'Here comes the king men greet
As wise and good and just,
To crush us in the dust
Under his heedless feet.'
The great king bowed his head,
And saw the wide surprise
Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes
As he told her what they said.
'O king!' she whispered sweet,
'Too happy fate have they
Who perish in thy way
Beneath thy gracious feet!
'Thou of the God-lent crown,
Shall these vile creatures dare
Murmur against thee where
The knees of kings kneel down?'
'Nay,' Solomon replied,
'The wise and strong should seek
The welfare of the weak,'
And turned his horse aside.
His train, with quick alarm,
Curved with their leader round
The ant-hill's peopled mound,
And left it free from harm.
The jewelled head bent low;
'O king!' she said, 'henceforth
The secret of thy worth
And wisdom well I know.
'Happy must be the State
Whose ruler heedeth more
The murmurs of the poor
Than flatteries of the great.'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The King Of Denmark's Sons
In Denmark gone is many a year,
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun,
Two sons of Gorm the King there were,
So grey is the sea when day is done.
Both these were gotten in lawful bed
Of Thyrre Denmark’s Surety-head.
Fair was Knut of face and limb
As the breast of the Queen that suckled him.
But Harald was hot of hand and heart
As lips of lovers ere they part.
Knut sat at home in all men’s love,
But over the seas must Harald rove.
And for every deed by Harald won,
Gorm laid more love on Knut alone.
On a high-tide spake the King in hall,
“Old I grow as the leaves that fall.
“Knut shall reign when I am dead,
So shall the land have peace and aid.
“But many a ship shall Harald have,
For I deem the sea well wrought for his grave.”
Then none spake save the King again,
“If Knut die all my days be vain.
“And whoso the tale of his death shall tell,
Hath spoken a word to gain him hell.
“Lo here a doom I will not break,”
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun.
“For life or death or any man’s sake,”
So grey is the sea when the day is done.
O merry days in the summer-tide!
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun.
When the ships sail fair and the young men ride.
So grey is the sea when day is done.
Now Harald has got him east away,
And each morrow of fight was a gainful day.
But Knut is to his fosterer gone
To deal in deeds of peace alone.
So wear the days, and well it is
Such lovely lords should dwell in bliss.
O merry in the winter-tide
When men to Yule-feast wend them wide.
And here lieth Knut in the Lima-firth
When the lift is low o’er the Danish earth.
“Tell me now, Shipmaster mine,
What are yon torches there that shine?”
“Lord, no torches may these be
But golden prows across the sea.
“For over there the sun shines now
And the gold worms gape from every prow.”
The sun and the wind came down o’er the sea,
“Tell them over how many they be!”
“Ten I tell with shield-hung sides.
Nought but a fool his death abides.”
“Ten thou tellest, and we be three,
Good need that we do manfully.
“Good fellows, grip the shield and spear,
For Harald my brother draweth near.
“Well breakfast we when night is done,
And Valhall’s cock crows up the sun.”
Up spoke Harald in wrathful case:
“I would have word with this waxen face!
“What wilt thou pay, thou hucksterer,
That I let thee live another year?
“For oath that thou wilt never reign
Will I let thee live a year or twain.”
“Kisses and love shalt thou have of me
If yet my liegeman thou wilt be.
“But stroke of sword, and dint of axe,
Or ere thou makest my face as wax.”
As thick the arrows fell around
As fall sere leaves on autumn ground.
In many a cheek the red did wane
No maid might ever kiss again.
“Lay me aboard,” Lord Harald said,
“The winter day will soon be dead!
“Lay me aboard the bastard’s ship,
And see to it lest your grapnels slip!”
Then some they knelt and some they drowned,
And some lay dead Lord Knut around.
“Look here at the wax-white corpse of him,
As fair as the Queen in face and limb!
“Make now for the shore, for the moon is bright,
And I would be home ere the end of night.
“Two sons last night had Thyrre the Queen,
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun.
And both she may lack ere the woods wax green,”
So grey is the sea when day is done.
A little before the morning tide,
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun,
Queen Thyrre looked out of her window-side,
So grey is the sea when day is done.
“O men-at-arms, what men be ye?”
“Harald thy son come over the sea.”
“Why is thy face so pale, my son?”
“It may be red or day is done.”
“O evil words of an evil hour!
Come, sweet son, to thy mother’s bower!”
None from the Queen’s bower went that day
Till dark night over the meadows lay.
None thenceforth heard wail or cry
Till the King’s feast was waxen high.
Then into the hall Lord Harald came
When the great wax lights were all aflame.
“What tidings, son, dost thou bear to me?
Speak out before I drink with thee.”
“Tidings small for a seafarer.
Two falcons in the sea-cliff’s were;
“And one was white and one was grey
And they fell to battle on a day;
“They fought in the sun, they fought in the wind,
No boot the white fowl’s wounds to bind.
“They fought in the wind, they fought in the sun,
And the white fowl died when the play was done.”
“Small tidings these to bear o’er the sea!
Good hap that nothing worser they be!
“Small tidings for a travelled man!
Drink with me, son, whiles yet ye can!
“Drink with me ere thy day and mine,
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun,
Be nought but a tale told over the wine.”
So grey is the sea when day is done.
Now fareth the King with his men to sleep,
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun,
And dim the maids from the Queen’s bower creep,
So grey is the sea when day is done.
And in the hall is little light,
And there standeth the Queen with cheeks full white.
And soft the feet of women fall
From end to end of the King’s great hall.
These bear the gold-wrought cloths away,
And in other wise the hall array;
Till all is black that hath been gold
So heavy a tale there must be told.
The morrow men looked on King Gorm and said
“Hath he dreamed a dream or beheld the dead?
“Why is he sad who should be gay?
Why are the old man’s lips so grey?”
Slow paced the King adown the hall,
Nor looked aside to either wall,
Till in high-seat there he sat him down,
And deadly old men deemed him grown.
“O Queen, what thrall’s hands durst do this,
To strip my hall of mirth and bliss?”
“No thrall’s hands in the hangings were,
No thrall’s hands made the tenters bare.
“King’s daughters’ hands have done the deed,
The hands of Denmark’s Surety-head.”
“Nought betters the deed thy word unsaid.
Tell me that Knut my son is dead!”
She said: “The doom on thee, O King!
For thine own lips have said the thing.”
Men looked to see the King arise,
The death of men within his eyes.
Men looked to see his bitter sword
That once cleared ships from board to board.
But in the hall no sword gleamed wide,
His hand fell down along his side.
No red there came into his cheek,
He fell aback as one made weak.
His wan cheek brushed the high-seat’s side,
And in the noon of day he died.
So lieth King Gorm beneath the grass,
But from mouth to mouth this tale did pass.
And Harald reigned and went his way,
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun.
And still is the story told to-day,
So grey is the sea when day is done.
poem by William Morris
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The Shepherd's Wife's Song
Ah, what is love? It is a pretty thing,
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king,
And sweeter, too:
For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,
And cares can make the sweetest love to frown:
Ah then, ah then,
If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
His flocks are folded; he comes home at night
As merry as a king in his delight,
And merrier, too:
For kings bethink them what the state require,
Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:
He kisseth first, then sits at blithe to eat
His cream and curds, as doth a king his meat,
And blither, too:
For kings have often fears when they do sup,
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:
To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween,
As is a king in dalliance with a queen;
More wanton, too:
For kings have many griefs, affects to move,
Where shepherds have no greater grief than love:
Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound
As doth the king upon his bed of down;
More sounder, too:
For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:
Thus, with his wife, he spends the year as blithe
As doth the king at every tide or sithe,
And blither, too:
For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,
Where shepherds laugh and love upon the land:
Ah then, ah then,
Since country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
poem by Robert Greene
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The White Bull
Ev'ry dusk eye in Madrid,
Flash'd blue 'neath its lid;
As the cry and the clamour ran round,
'The king has been crown'd!
And the brow of his bride has been bound
With the crown of a queen!'
And between
Te Deum and salvo, the roar
Of the crowd in the square,
Shook tower and bastion and door,
And the marble of altar and floor;
And high in the air,
The wreaths of the incense were driven
To and fro, as are riven
The leaves of a lily, and cast
By the jubilant shout of the blast
To and fro, to and fro,
And they fell in the chancel and nave,
As the lily falls back on the wave,
And trembl'd and faded and died,
As the white petals tremble and shiver,
And fade in the tide
Of the jewel dark breast of the river.
'Ho, gossips, the wonderful news!
I have worn two holes in my shoes,
With the race I have run;
And, like an old grape in the sun,
I am shrivell'd with drought, for I ran
Like an antelope rather than man.
Our King is a king of Spaniards indeed,
And he loves to see the bold bull bleed;
And the Queen is a queen, by the saints right fit,
In half of the Spanish throne to sit;
Tho' blue her eyes and wanly fair,
Her cheek, and her neck, and her flaxen hair;
For free and full--
She can laugh as she watches the staggering bull;
And tap on the jewels of her fan,
While horse and man,
Reel on in a ruby rain of gore;
And pout her lip at the Toreador;
And fling a jest
If he leave the fight with unsullied vest,
No crack on his skin,
Where the bull's sharp horn has entered in.
Caramba, gossips, I would not be king,
And rule and reign
Over wine-shop, and palace, and all broad Spain,
If under my wing--
I had not a mate who could joy to the full,
In the gallant death of a man or a bull!'
'What is the news
That has worn two holes in my Saints'-day shoes,
And parch'd me so with heat and speed,
That a skin of wine down my throat must bleed?
Why this, there's a handsome Hidalgo at Court,
And half in sport,
He scour'd the country far and wide,
For a gift to pleasure the royal bride;
And on the broad plains of the Guadalquiver
He gave a pull--
To the jewell'd bridle and silken rein,
That made his stout horse rear and shiver;
For in the dusk reeds of the silver river--
Like the angry stars that redly fly
From the dark blue peaks of the midnight sky,
And smouldering lie,
Blood-red till they die
In the blistering ground--the eyes he saw
Of a bull without blemish, or speck, or flaw,
And a hide as white as a dead saint's soul--
With many a clinking of red pistole;
And draughts of sour wine from the herdsman's bowl,
He paid the full
Price in bright gold of the brave white bull.
'Comrades we all
From the pulpit tall
Have heard the fat friars say God has decreed
That the peasant shall sweat and the soldier shall bleed,
And Hidalgo and King
May righteously wring
Sweat and blood from us all, weak, strong, young and old,
And turn the tax into Treasury gold.
Well, the friar knows best,
Or why wear a cowl?
And a cord round his breast?
So why should we scowl?
The friar is learned and knows the mind,
From core to rind,
Of God, and the Virgin, and ev'ry saint
That a tongue can name or a brush can paint;
And I've heard him declare--
With a shout that shook all the birds in the air,
That two kinds of clay
Are used in God's Pottery every day.
The finest and best he puts in a mould
Of purest gold,
Stamped with the mark of His signet ring,
And He turns them out,
(While the angels shout)
The Pope and the priest, the Hidalgo and King!
And He gives them dominion full and just
O'er the creatures He kneads from the common dust,
And the clay, stamped with His proper sign,
Has right divine
To the sweat, and the blood and the bended knee
Of such, my gossips, as ye and me.
Who cares? Not I
Only let King and Hidalgo buy,
With the red pistoles
They wring from our sweltering bodies and souls,
Treasures as full
Of the worth of gold as the bold white bull!
'The Hidalgo rode back to the Court:
And to finish the sport,
When the King had been crowned,
And the flaxen hair of the bride had been bound,
With the crown of the Queen;
He took a huge necklace of plates of gold,
With rubies between;
And wound it threefold
Round the brute's broad neck, and with ruby ring
In its fire-puffed nostrils had it led
To the feet of the Queen as she sat by the King,
With the red crown set on her lily head;
And she said--
'Let the bull be led
To the floor
Of the arena: Proclaim,
In my name,
That the valliant and bold Toreador,
Who slays him shall pull
The rubies and gold from the gore
Of the bold white bull!'
'That is the news which I bear;
I heard it below in the square--
And to and fro,
I heard the voice blow
Of Pedro, the brawny young Toreador,
As he swore
By the tremulous light of the golden star
That quivers beneath the soft lid
Of Pilar,
Who sells tall lilies through fair Madrid;
He would wind six-fold
Round her neck, long, slender, round and full,
The rubies and gold
That three times rolled
Round the mighty breast of the bold white bull.
And loudly he sang,
While the wine cups rang,
'If I'm the bravest Toreador
In gallant, gay Madrid,
If thou hast got the brightest eye
That dances 'neath a lid;
If e'er of Andalusian wine
I drank a bottle full,
The gold, the rubies shall be thine
That deck the bold white bull.'
'Already a chorus rings out in the city,
A jubilant ditty,
And every guitar
Vibrates to the names of Pedro and Pilar;
And the strings and voices are soulless and dull
That sound not the name of the bold white bull!'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Corydon
A PASTORAL
SCENE: A roadside in Arcady
SHEPHERD.
Good sir, have you seen pass this way
A mischief straight from market-day?
You'd know her at a glance, I think;
Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink;
She has a way of looking back
Over her shoulder, and, alack!
Who gets that look one time, good sir,
Has naught to do but follow her.
PILGRIM.
I have not seen this maid, methinks,
Though she that passed had lips like pinks.
SHEPHERD.
Or like two strawberries made one
By some sly trick of dew and sun.
PILGRIM.
A poet!
SHEPHERD.
Nay, a simple swain
That tends his flock on yonder plain,
Naught else, I swear by book and bell.
But she that passed, you marked her well.
Was she not smooth as any be
That dwell herein in Arcady?
PILGRIM.
Her skin was as the satin bark
Of birches
SHEPHERD.
Light or dark?
PILGRIM.
Quite dark.
SHEPHERD.
Then 'twas not she.
PILGRIM.
The peach's side
That's next the sun is not so dyed
As was her cheek. Her hair hung down
Like summer twilight falling brown;
And when the breeze swept by, I wist
Her face was in a sombre mist.
SHEPHERD.
No, that is not the maid I seek.
Her hair lies gold against the cheek;
Her yellow tresses take the morn
Like silken tassles of the corn.
And yet--brown locks are far from bad.
PILGRIM.
Now I bethinks me, this one had
A figure like the willow-tree
Which, slight and supple, wondrously
Inclines to droop with pensive grace,
And still retains its proper place;
A foot so arched and very small
The marvel was she walked at all;
Her hand--in sooth I lack for words--
her hand, five slender snow-white birds.
Her voice--though she but said "God-speed"--
Was melody blown through a reed;
The girl Pan changed into a pipe
Had not a note so full and ripe.
And then her eye--my lad her eye!
Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,
An outward ice, an inward fire,
And lashes to the heart's desire--
Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.
SHEPHERD.
Good sir, which way did this one go?
PILGRIM, solus.
So, he is off! The silly youth
Knoweth not love in sober sooth.
He loves, thus lads at first are blind--
No woman, only Womankind.
I needs must laugh, for, by the Mass,
No maid at all did this way pass!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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A Match
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pasture or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death,
We'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling
And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May,
We'd throw with leaves for hours
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady
And night were bright like day;
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Johnny Armstrong
There dwelt a man in faire Westmerland
Ionne Armstrong men did him call
He had nither lands nor rents coming in
Yet he kept eight score men in his hall
He had horses and harness for them all,
Goodly steeds were all milk white;
O the golden bands an about their necks,
And their weapons, they were all alike.
Newes then was brought unto the king
That there was sicke a won as hee,
That lived (I]yke a bold out-law,
And robbed all the north country.
The king he writt an a letter then,
A letter which was large and long;
He signed it with his owne hand,
And he promised to doe him no wrong.
When this letter carne Ionne untill,
His heart it was as blythe as birds on the tree:
'Never was I sent for before any king,
My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee.
'And if wee goe the king before,
I would we went most orderly;
Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak,
Laced with silver laces three.
'Every one of you shall have his velvett coat,
Laced with silver lace so white;
O the golden bands an about your necks,
Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke''
By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock,
Towards Edenburough gon was hee,
And with him all his eight score men;
Good lord, it was a goodly sight for to see!
When Ionne came befower the king,
He fell downe on his knee;
'O pardon, my soveraine leige; he said,
'O pardon my eight score men and mee!-
'Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong,
For thy eight score men nor thee;
For to-morrow morning by ten of the clock,
Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow-tree'
But Ionne lookd over his left shoulder,
Good Lord, what a grievous look looked hee!
Saying, 'Asking grace of a graceles face-
Why there is none for you nor me'
But Ionne had a bright sword by his side,
And it was made of the mettle so free,
That had not the king stept his foot aside,
He had smitten his head from his faire bodde.
Saying, 'fight on, my merry men all,
And see that none of you be taine;
For rather then men shall say we were hanged,
Let them report how we were slaine.'
Then, God wott, faire Eddenburrough rose,
And so besett poore Ionne rounde,
That fowerscore and tenn of Ionne's best men
Lay gasping all upon the ground.
Then like a mad man Ionne laid about,
And like a mad man then fought hee,
Until a falce Scot came Ionne behinde,
And runn him through the faire boddee.
Saying, 'fight on, my merry men all,
And see that none o you be taine;
For I will stand by and bleed but awhile,
And then will I come and fight againe!'
Newes then was brought to young Ionne Armstrong,
As he stood by his nurse's knee,
Who vowed if ere he lived for to be a man,
O' the treacherous Scots revengd hee'd be.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Princes' Qust - Part the Fourth
That night he dreamed that over him there stole
A change miraculous, whereby his soul
Was parted from his body for a space,
And through a labyrinth of secret ways
Entered the world where dead men's ghosts abide
To seek the Seer who yestermorn had died.
And there in very truth he found the Seer,
Who gazing on him said, 'What would'st thou here,
O royal-born, who visitest the coasts
Of darkness, and the dwellings of the ghosts?'
Then said the Prince, 'I fain would know to find
The land as yet untrod of mortal-kind
Which I beheld by gracious leave of Sleep.'
To whom the Spirit: 'O Prince, the seas are deep
And very wide betwixt thee and that land,
And who shall say how many days do stand,
As dim-seen armed hosts between thy bliss
And thee?-Moreover, in the world there is
A certain Emerald Stone which some do call
The Emerald of the Virtues Mystical;
(Though what those Virtues Mystical may be
None living knows) and since, O youth, to me
Thou dost apply for counsel, be it known
Except thou have this wondrous emerald stone,
Go seek through all the world, thou shalt not find
The land thou wouldst: but like the houseless wind
That roams the world to seek a resting-place,
Thou through inhospitable time and space
Shalt roam, till time and space deliver thee,
To spaceless, timeless, mute eternity.
'For in a certain land there once did dwell
(How long ago it needs not I should tell)
At the king's court a great astrologer,
Ev'n such as erst was I, but mightier
And far excelling; and it came to pass
That he fell sick; and very old he was;
And knowing that his end was nigh, he said
To him that sat in sorrow by his bed,
'O master well-beloved and matchless king,
Take thou and keep this lowly offering
In memory of thy servant;' whereupon
The king perceived it was a gem that shone
Like the sea's heart: and on one side of it
This legend in an unknown tongue was writ-
Who holdeth Me may go where none hath fared
Before, and none shall follow afterward.
So the king took the bright green stone betwixt
His fingers, and upon the legend fixed
His eyes, and said unto the dying Seer,
'Now who shall render this dark scripture clear
That I may know the meaning of the gift?'
And the mage oped his mouth and strove to lift
His voice, but could not, for the wishèd word
Clave to his rattling throat, that no man heard:
Whereby the soul, departing, bore away
From all men living, even to this day,
The secret. And the jewel hath passed down
Seven times from sire to son, and in the crown
It shineth of that country's kings, being called
Ev'n to this day the mystic emerald;
But no man liveth in the world, of wit
To read the writing that is on it writ.'
'O Master,' said the Prince, 'and wilt not thou
Instruct me where to find the king who now
Weareth the jewel in his diadem?'
To whom the Spirit, 'O youth, and if the gem
Be worth the finding, is't not also worth
The little pain of seeking through the earth?-
Yet so thou may'st not wander witlessly,
Look thou forget not this I tell to thee:
When in thy journeyings thou shalt dream once more
The fateful dream thou haddest heretofore,
That filled thy veins with longing as with wine,
Till all thy being brimm'd over-by that sign
Thou mayest know thyself at last to be
Within the borders of his empery
Who hath the mystic emerald stone, whose gleam
Shall light thee to the country of thy dream.'
'But,' said the Prince, 'When all the world's highways
My feet have trod, till after length of days
I reach the land where lies the wondrous stone,
How shall I make so rare a, thing mine own?
For had I riches more than could be told,
What king would sell his jewels for my gold?'
And on this wise the answer of the Seer
Fell in the hollow of his dreaming ear:
'Behold this Iron Chain,-of power it is
To heal all manner of mortal maladies
In him that wears it round his neck but once,
Between the sun's downgoing and the sun's
Uprising: take it thou, and hold it fast
Until by seeking long thou find at last
The king that hath the mystic emerald stone:
And having found him, thou shalt e'en make known
The virtues lodged within this charmed chain:
Which when the king doth hear he will be fain
To have possession of so strange a thing;
And thou shalt make a bargain with the king
To give the Iron Chain in bartery
For that mysterious jewel whereof he
Knows not the secret worth. And when at last
The emerald stone in thy own hands thou hast,
Itself shall guide thee whither thou would'st go-
Ev'n to the land revealed of sleep, where no
Grief comes to mar their music, neither sound
Of sighing, while the golden years go round.'
So spake the Spirit unto him that dreamed,
And suddenly that world of shadow seemed
More shadowy; and all things began to blend
Together: and the dream was at an end.
Then slept the Prince a deep sweet sleep that knew
Nor dream nor vision; till the dawnlight grew
Up, and his soul a sudden halt did make
About the confines dim of sleep and wake,
Where wandering lights and wildered shadows meet.
But presently uprising to his feet
From tarriance in that frontier-region dim,
Exceeding wonderment laid hold on him;
For even while from off his bed he rose,
He heard a clinking as of metal, close
Thereby, and could in no-wise understand:
And lo the Iron Chain was in his hand!
poem by William Watson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Lovers Of Marchaid
Dominic came riding down, sworded, straight and splendid,
Drave his hilt against her door, flung a golden chain.
Said: 'I'll teach your lips a song sweet as his that's ended,
Ere the white rose call the bee, the almond flower again.'
But he only saw her head bent within the gloom
Over heaps of bridal thread bright as apple-bloom,
Silver silk like rain that spread across the driving loom.
Dreaming Fanch, the cobbler's son, took his tools and laces,
Wrought her shoes of scarlet dye, shoes as pale as snow;
'They shall lead her wildrose feet all the fairy paces
Danced along the road of love, the road such feet should go' -
But he only saw her eyes turning from his gift
Out towards the silver skies where the white clouds drift,
Where the wild gerfalcon flies, where the last sails lift.
Bran has built his homestead high where the hills may shield her,
Where the young bird waits the spring, where the dawns are fair,
Said: 'I'll name my trees for her, since I may not yield her
Stars of morning for her feet, of evening for her hair.'
But he did not see them ride, seven dim sail and more,
All along the harbor-side, white from shore to shore,
Nor heard the voices of the tide crying at her door.
Jean-Marie has touched his pipe down beside the river
When the young fox bends the fern, when the folds are still,
Said: 'I send her all the gifts that my love may give her, -
Golden notes like golden birds to seek her at my will.'
But he only found the waves, heard the sea-gull's cry,
In and out the ocean caves, underneath the sky,
All above the wind-washed graves where dead seamen lie.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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