No More Learning

I have sung women in three cities But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea.
15
? her " amoros " to esgart
of Aelis her free- speech
NA AUDIART
Que be-m vols mal
NOTE : Anyone who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Montaignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none of him, the song
wherein he, seeking to find or make her equal, begs of each preeminent lady of Langue d'Oc some trait or some fair semblance : thus of Cembelins
her love-lit
running, of the Vicomptess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at
Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's ; and even in this fashion of 1'
Lady Audiart "although she would that ill come unto him he sought and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make " Una dompna soiseubuda " a borrowed lady or as the Italians translated it " Una donna ideale. "
THOUGH thou well dost wish me ill
Audiart, Audiart,
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart,
Stately, tall and lovely tender Who shall render
Audiart, Audiart Praises meet unto thy fashion ?
Here a word kiss !
Pass I on Unto Lady " Miels-de-Ben,"
Having praised thy girdle's scope How the stays ply back from it ;
I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst . . .
Nay no whit
Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl, 16
wit,
glance,
? Just for the swirl
Thy satins made upon the stair, 'Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met Though thou hate me, read it set
1
In rose and
Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
" Audiart, Audiart "
Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea though thou wish me ill
Audiart, Audiart. Thy loveliness is here writ till,
gold.
till thou come 2 again.
That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul
Scorning a new, wry'd casement, Churlish at seemed misplacement, Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Oh,
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form
Being so young and fair As then only in dreams,
Being then young and wry'd, Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften, Knowing, I know not how,
B
1 I. e. in illumed
manuscript. 17
2 Reincarnate.
Audiart,
.
? Thou wert once she
For whose fairness one forgave Audiart Que be-m vols mal.
18
Audiart, Audiart Audiart,
? VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE
TOWARDS the Noel that morte saison
(Christ make the shepherds'* homage dear ! ) Then when the grey wolves everychone
Drink of the winds their chill small-beer
And lap o' the snows food's gueredon
Then makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal ! with the dregs if the clear be gone ! )
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon ?
(What of the magians* scented gear ? }
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear Lest love return with the foison sun
And slay the memories that me cheer
(Such as I drink to mine fashion)
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
Where are the joys my heart had won?
and Mars to Zeus drawn near Where are the lips mine lay upon,
Aye ! where are the glances feat and clear That bade my heart his valour don ?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon ? )
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
Prince : ask me not what I have done Nor what God hath that can me cheer But ye ask first where the winds are gone
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
1
l (Saturn /)
Signum Nativitatis. 19
? A VILLONAUD : BALLAD OF THE GIBBET
OR THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION SCENE : " En ce bourdel ou tenons nostre estat"
It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know :
" Freres humains qui apres nous <vi<vez. "
DRINK ye a skoal for the gallows tree !
Fraiu^ois and Margot and thee and me,
Drink we the comrades merrily
That said " Till then " for the tree us, gallows !
Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,
Thomas Larron " Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress
Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain
To make him a mate of the " Haulte Noblesse " And bade her be out with ill address
As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.
Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree !
Francois and Margot and thee and me, Drink we to Marienne Ydole,
That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.
Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress, Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress
As lips shrink back when we feel the strain
1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a preservative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, UHomme qui Rit.
20
l
? Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign,
And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress
That striveth to ours across the pain.
Drink we skoal to the gallows tree !
Fra^ois and Margot and thee and me, For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee.
Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness
That plundered St Hubert back o' the fane : Aie ! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess
In " faith and troth " to a traitoress,
"" Which of his brothers had he slain ?
But drink we skoal to the gallows tree ! Fran9ois and Margot and thee and me :
These that we loved shall God love less And smite alway at their faibleness ?
Skoal ! ! to the gallowsj and then pray we : God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his " Haulte Citee. "
21
? MESMERISM
" And a cafs in the tuater-butt" ROBERT BROWNING
AYE you're a man that ! ye old mesmerizer
Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser
Tocatchyouatwormturning. HolyOdd'sbodykins!
" Cat's i' the water butt " in verse- ! Thought's your
barrel,
Tell us this thing rather, then we'll believe you,
You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we'd lief do.
You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But God ! what a sight you ha' got o' our in'ards,
Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope, Broad as all ocean and leanin' man-kin'ards.
Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius,
Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption, Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius,
Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.
Here's to you, Old Hippety-Hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,
Yougrabbedatthegoldsure; hadnoneedtopackcents Into your versicles.
Clear sight's elector !
22
? FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO YOUR songs?
Oh! Thelittle mothers
Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night
Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills,
What time the swallow fills Her note, the little rabbit folk That some call children,
Such as are up and wide
Will laugh your verses to each other,
Pulling on their shoes for the day's business. Serious child business that the world
Laughs at, and grows stale ; Such is the tale
Part of it of thy song-life. Mine?
A book is known by them that read Thatsame. Thypublicinmyscreed
Is listed. Well !
Behold mine audience,
As we had seen him yesterday.
Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels, Such an one as the world feels
A sort of curse against its guzzling And its age-lasting wallow for red greed And yet; full speed
23
Some score years hence
? Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at
'Cause he hath
No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon
Such an one as women draw away from
For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat
Shows razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard ;
Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall,
Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,
"Ah-eh! the strange rare name . Ah-eh ! He must be rare if even / have not
And lost mid-page Such age
As his pardons the habit,
He analyses form and thought to see How I 'scaped immortality.
24
. ;
'
? PRAISE OF YSOLT
IN vain have I striven,
to teach my heart to bow ;
In vain have I said to him
"There be many singers greater than thou. "
But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany,
As a vague crying upon the night
That leaveth me no rest, saying ever,
"a
Song, song. "
Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight
Seeking ever a song.
Lo, I am worn with travail
And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes As dark red circles filled with dust.
Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight,
And little red elf words
Little grey elf words
Little brown leaf words
Little green leaf words crying for a song.
The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in the
spring time
Blowing they know not whither, seeking a song. White words as snow flakes but they are cold, Moss words, lips words, words of slow streams.
In vain have I striven
to teach my soul to bow,
In vain have I pled with him :
"There be greater souls than thou. "
For in the morn of my years there came a woman As moon light calling,
25
" A crying for a song,
crying
song,"
crying
" A
song,"
? As the moon calleth the tides,
" Song, a song. "
Wherefore I made her a song and she went from me
As the moon doth from the sea,
But still came the leaf words, little brown elf words
Saying
" The soul sendeth us. "
"Aa " song, song !
And in vain I cried unto them " I have no song For she I sang of hath gone from me. "
But my soul sent a woman, a woman of the wonderfolk, A woman as fire upon the pine woods
"a
crying Song, song. "
As the flame crieth unto the sap.
My song was ablaze with her and she went from me As flame leaveth the embers so went she unto new
forests
And the words were with me
crying
ever " a
Song, song. "
And I " I have no song,"
Till my soul sent a woman as the sun : Yea as the sun calleth to the seed,
As the spring upon the bough
So is she that cometh, the mother of songs,
She that holdeth the wonder words within her eyes The words, little elf words
that call ever unto me
"a
Song, song. "
ENVOI
In vain have I striven with my soul
to teach my soul to bow. What soul boweth
while in his heart art thou ? 26
? FOR E. McC
That 'was my counter-blade under Leonardo Terrene, Master of Fence
GONE while your tastes were keen to you, Gone where the grey winds call to you,
By that high fencer, even Death,
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth ;
Such is your fence, one saith, One that hath known you.
Drew you your sword most gallantly
Made you your pass most valiantly
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death.
Gone as a gust of breath
Faith ! no man tarrieth,
" Se il cor ti manca" but it failed thee not! " Non tifidar^ it is the sword that speaks "/ me'. "!
Thou trusted'st in thyself and met the blade 'Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laid
As memorable broken blades that be
Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry. As old Toledos past their days of war
Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore, So art thou with us, being good to keep
In our heart's sword-rack, though thy sword-arm sleep.
ENVOI
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all,
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death,
Behold the shield ! He shall not take thee all.
1 Sword-rune " If thy heart fail thee trust not in me. " 27
? AT THE HEART O' ME
A. D. 751
WITH ever one fear at the heart o' me Long by still sea-coasts
coursed my Grey-Falcon, And the twin delights
of shore and sea were mine, Sapphire and emerald with
fine pearls between.
Through the pale courses of
the land-caressing in-streams Glided my barge and
the kindly strange peoples Gave to me laugh for laugh,
and wine for my tales of wandering And the cities gave me welcome
and the fields free passage, With ever one fear
at the heart o' me.
An thou should'st grow weary
An "
from out the borderland, What should avail me
booty of whale-ways ? What should avail me
gold rings or the chain-mail ? What should avail me
the many-twined bracelets ? 28
they
" should call to thee
ere my returning,
? What should avail me,
O my beloved, "
Here in this "
what should avail me
Out of the booty and gain of my goings ?
1
l
Middan-gard
Anglo-Saxon "Earth. "
THE WHITE STAG
I HA* seen them 'mid the clouds on the heather. Lo ! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,
Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover, When the white hart breaks his cover
And the white wind breaks the morn.
the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting,
"
Bid the world's hounds come to horn !
29
? IN DURANCE
I AM homesick after mine own kind,
Oh I know that there are folk about me, friendly faces, But I am homesick after mine own kind.
"Thesesellour " Oh pictures ! well,
They reach me not, touch me some edge or that, But reach me not and all my life's become
One flame, that reaches not beyond
My heart's own hearth,
Or hides among the ashes there for thee. "Thee"? Oh, "Thee" is who cometh first Out of mine own soul-kin,
For I am homesick after mine own kind
And ordinary people touch me not.
And I am homesick After mine own kind that know, and feel
And have some breath for beauty and the arts.
Aye, I am wistful for my kin of the spirit And have none about me save in the shadows
When come they, surging of power, " DAEMON,"
"Quasi KALOUN. " S. T. says Beauty is most that, a "calling to the soul. "
Well then, so call they, the swirlers out of the mist of my soul,
They that come mewards, bearing old magic.
But for all that, I am homesick after mine own kind And would meet kindred even as I am, Flesh-shrouded bearing the secret.
" All they that with strange sadness "
30
? Have the earth in mockery, and are kind to all,
My fellows, aye I know the glory
Of th' unbounded ones, but ye, that hide
As I hide most the while
And burst forth to the windows only whiles or whiles
For love, or hope, or beauty or for power, Then smoulder, with the lids half closed
And are untouched by echoes of the world.
Oh ye, my fellows : with the seas between us some be, Purple and sapphire for the silver shafts
Of sun and spray all shattered at the bows ;
And some the hills hold off,
The little hills to east us, though here we Have damp and plain to be our shutting in.
" " and we are one. Up!
And soul yet my
sings
Yea thou, and Thou, and THOU, and all my kin
To whom my breast and arms are ever warm,
For that I love ye as the wind the trees
That holds their blossoms and their leaves in cure
And calls the utmost singing from the boughs
That 'thout him, save the aspen, were as dumb
Still shade, and bade no whisper speak the birds of how
"Beyond, beyond, beyond, there lies . . . "
? MARVOIL
A POOR clerk " Arnaut the less " call
I, they me,
And because I have small mind to sit
Day long, long day cooped on a stool
A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha* taken to rambling the South here.
The Vicomte of Beziers 's not such a bad lot.
I made rimes to his lady this three year :
Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon,
Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging His helmet at Beziers.
Then came what might come, to wit: three men and
one woman,
Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady
Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends :
Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers Bored to an inch of extinction,
Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me ! in this damn'd inn of Avignon,
Stringing long verse for the Burlatz ;
All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the
Aragonese,
Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.
And if when I am dead
They take the trouble to tear out this wall here. They'll know more of Arnaut of Marvoil
Than half his canzoni say of him.
32
? As for will and testament I leave none.
Save this: Beziers
" Vers and canzone to the Countess of
In return for the first kiss she gave me. " May her eyes and her cheek be fair
To all men except the King of Aragon, And may I come speedily to Beziers
Whither my desire and my dream have preceded me.
O hole in the wall here! be thou my jongleur As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows,
Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers,
For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with this
parchment,
So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes,
And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly my thought.
Wherefore, O hole in the wall here,
When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow
That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here.
Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment.
O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur,
And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind, Keep yet my secret in thy breast here ;
Even as I keep her image in my heart here. Mihi pergamena deest
33
? AND THUS IN NINEVEH
"AYE! Iamapoetanduponmytomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves
And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword.
" Lo ! this thing is not mine
Nor thine to hinder,
For the custom is full old,
And here in Nineveh have I beheld
Many a singer pass and take his place x In those dim halls where no man troubleth
His sleep or song.
And many a one hath sung his songs
More craftily, more subtle-souled than I;
And many a one now doth surpass
My wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers, Yet am I poet, and upon my tomb
Shall all men scatter rose leaves
Ere the night slay light With her blue sword.
" It is not, Raana, that my song rings highest Or more sweet in tone than any, but that I
Am here a Poet, that doth drink of life As lesser men drink wine. "
34
? EXULTATIONS
GUIDO INVITES YOU THUS
" LAPPO I leave behind and Dante too, Lo, I would sail the seas with thee alone !
Talk me no love talk, no bought-cheap fiddl'ry, Mine is the ship and thine the merchandise,
All the blind earth knows not th'emprise Whereto thou calledst and whereto I call.
Lo, I have seen thee bound about with dreams, Lo, I have known thy heart and its desire ; Life, all of it, my sea, and all men's streams Are fused in it as flames of an altar fire !
Lo, thou hast voyaged not ! The ship is mine. ' 1 The reference is to Dante's sonnet " Guido vorrei . . . "
35
? NIGHT LITANY
O DIEU, purifiez nos coeurs ! Purifiez nos coeurs !
Yea the lines hast thou laid unto me
in pleasant places, And the beauty of this thy Venice
hast thou shown unto me Until is its loveliness become unto me
a thing of tears.
O God, what great kindness
have we done in times past
and forgotten it,
That thou givest this wonder unto us,
O God of waters ?
O God of the night,
What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus repayest us
Before the time of its coming ?
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos cceurs,
Purifiez nos coeurs. For we have seen
The glory of the shadow of the likeness of thine handmaid,
Yea, the glory of the shadow of thy Beauty hath walked
? Upon the shadow of the waters In this thy Venice.
And before the holiness Of the shadow of thy handmaid
Have I hidden mine eyes, O God of waters.
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos cceurs,
Purifiez nos cceurs,
O God of waters,
make clean our hearts within us
And our lips to show forth thy praise, For I have seen the
Shadow of this thy Venice
Floating upon the waters, And thy stars
Have seen this thing out of their far courses Have they seen this thing,
O God of waters, Even as are thy stars
Silent unto us in their far-coursing, Even so is mine heart
become silent within me.
Purifiez nos coeurs God of the silence',
Purifiez nos cceurs God of waters.
37
? SESTINA: ALTAFORTE
LOQUITUR : En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer
up of strife. Eccovi !
Judge ye !
Have I dug him up again ?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte.
" The Leopard," the device of Richard (Coeur de Lion).
I
DAMN it all ! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come !
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah ! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple,
opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
II
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing, And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
Ill
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash ! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing ! Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music ! Bah ! there's no wine like the blood's crimson !
38
""
Papiols is his jongleur.
Let's to music !
? May
God damn for ever all who " Peace " cry !
VII
IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson. And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music. VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music !
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our " The " rush clash. charges 'gainst Leopard's
And let the music of the swords make them crimson ! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash !
Hell blot black for alway the thought " Peace "
!
39
? PIERE VIDAL OLD
It is of Piere Vidal, the fool par excellence of all Provence, of whom the tale tells how he ran mad, as a wolf, because of his love for Loba of Penautier, and how men hunted him with dogs through the mountains of Cabaret and brought him for dead to the dwelling of this Loba (she-wolf) of Penautier, and how she and her Lord had him healed and made welcome, and he stayed some time at that court. He speaks :
WHEN I but think upon the great dead days
And turn my mind upon that splendid madness, Lo ! I do curse my strength
And blame the sun his gladness ; For that the one is dead
And the red sun mocks my sadness.
Behold me, Vidal, that was fool of fools !
Swift as the king wolf was I and as strong
When tall stags fled me through the alder brakes,
And every jongleur knew me in his song, And the hounds fled and the deer fled
And none fled over long.
Even the grey pack knew me and knew fear. God ! how the swiftest hind's blood spurted hot
Over the sharpened teeth and purpling lips !
Hot was that hind's blood yet it scorched me not
As did first scorn, then lips of the Penautier ! Aye ye are fools, if ye think time can blot
From Piere Vidal's remembrance that blue night. God ! but the purple of the sky was deep !
Clear, deep, translucent, so the stars me seemed Set deep in crystal; and because my sleep
Rare visitor came not, the Saints I guerdon For that restlessness Piere set to keep
4
? One more fool's vigil with the hollyhocks. Swift came the Loba, as a branch that's caught, Torn, green and silent in the swollen Rhone,
Green was her mantle, close, and wrought
Of some thin silk stuff that's scarce stuff at all,
But like a mist wherethrough her white form fought,
And conquered ! Ah God ! conquered ! Silent my mate came as the night was still.
Speech? Words? Faugh! Whotalksofwordsand love ? !
Hot is such love and silent,
Silent as fate is, and as strong until It faints in taking and in giving all.
Stark, keen, triumphant, till it play& at death. God ! she was white then, splendid as some tomb
High wrought of marble, and the panting breath
Ceased utterly. Well, then I waited, drew, Half-sheathed, then naked from its saffron sheath Drew full this dagger that doth tremble here.
Just then she woke and mocked the less keen blade. Ah God, the Loba ! and my only mate !
Was there such flesh made ever and unmade !
God curse the years that turn such women grey !
Behold here Vidal, that was hunted, flayed, Shamed and yet bowed not and that won at last.
And yet I curse the sun for his red gladness,
I that have known strath, garth, brake, dale,
And every run-away of the wood through that great
madness,
Behold me shrivelled as an old oak's trunk
And made men's mock'ry in my rotten sadness ! 41
? No man hath heard the glory of my days :
No man hath dared and won his dare as I :
One night, one body and one welding flame !
What do ye own, ye niggards ! that can buy
Such glory of the earth ?
Such battle-guerdon with his prowesse high ?
O Age gone lax ! O stunted followers, That mask at passions and desire desires,
Behold me shrivelled, and your mock of mocks ; And yet I mock you by the mighty fires
That burnt me to this ash.
Ah!
Cabaret !
Ah Cabaret, thy hills again !
Or who will win ""
Take your hands off me ! . . . \_Sniffingtheair. Ha ! this scent is hot !
? BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE1 Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhile after the Crucifixion
HA' we lost the goodliest fere o' all For the priests and the gallows tree ?
Aye lover he was of brawny men, O' ships and the open sea.
When they came wi' a host to take Our Man His smile was good to see,
" First let these " go !
our
" Or I'll see ye damned," says he.
quo'
Goodly Fere,
Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
" Why took ye not me when I walked about
"
Alone in the town ?
says he.
Oh we drunk his " Hale " in the good red wine When we last made company,
No capon priest was the Goodly Fere But a man o* men was he.
I ha' seen him drive a hundred men Wi' a bundle o' cords swung free,
That they took the high and holy house
For their pawn and treasury.
They'll no' get him a' in a book I think
Though they write it cunningly ;
No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere
But aye loved the open sea.
1 Fere=
43
Mate, Companion.
? If they think they ha' snared our Goodly Fere They are fools to the last degree.
" Pll go to the feast," quo* our Goodly Fere, "Though I go to the gallows tree. "
" Ye ha* seen me heal the lame and blind,
And wake the dead," says he,
" Ye shall see one thing to master all : 'Tis how a brave man dies on the tree. "
A son of God was the Goodly Fere That bade us his brothers be.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men. I have seen him upon the tree.
He cried no cry when they drave the nails And the blood gushed hot and free,
The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue But never a cry cried he.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between,
Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea.
Like the sea that brooks no voyaging With the winds unleashed and free, Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
Wi' twey words spoke' suddently.
A master of men was the Goodly Fere,
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.
I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb Sin' they nailed him to the tree.
44
? LAUDANTES DECEM PULCHRITU- DINIS JOHANNAE TEMPLI
I
WHEN your beauty is grown old in all men's songs, And my uncertain words are lost amid that throng,
Then you will know the truth of my words,
And mayhap dreaming of those
Who sigh your praises in their songs,
You will think kindly then of these mad words.
II
I am torn, torn with thy beauty, O Rose of the sharpest thorn !
O Rose of the crimson beauty,
Why hast thou awakened the sleeper?
Why hast thou awakened the heart within me, O Rose of the crimson thorn ?
Ill
The unappeasable loveliness
is calling to me out of the wind,
And because your name
is written upon the ivory doors,
The wave in my heart is as a green wave, unconfined, Tossing the white foam toward you ;
And the lotus that pours
Her fragrance into the purple cup, Is more to be gained with the foam
Than are you with these words of mine. 45
? IV
He speaks to the moonlight concerning her
Pale hair that the moon has shaken Down over the dark breast of the sea,
magic her beauty has shaken
About the heart of me ;
Out of you have I woven a dream
That shall walk in the lonely vale
Betwixt the high hill and the low hill, Until the pale stream
Of the souls of men quench and grow still.
V
Voices speaking to the sun
Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over The green sheaf of the world,
And through the dim forest and under
The shadowed arches and the aisles,
We, who are older than thou art,
Met and remembered when his eyes beheld her
In the garden of the peach-trees, In the day of the blossoming.
VI
1 stood on the hill of Yrma
when the winds were a-hurrying,
With the grasses a-bending I followed them,
Through the brown grasses of Ahva unto the green of Asedon.
I have rested with the voices
in the gardens of Ahthor,
? I have lain beneath the peach-trees
in the hour of the purple :
Because I had awaited in
the garden of the peach-trees, Because I had feared not
in the forest of my mind, Mine eyes beheld the vision of the blossom
There in the peach-gardens past Asedon.
winds of Yrma, let her again come unto me,
Whose hair ye held unbound in the gardens of Ahthor !
VII
Because of the beautiful white shoulders and the rounded breasts
1 can in no wise forget my beloved of the peach-trees, And the little winds that speak when the dawn is
unfurled
And the rose-colour in the grey oak-leaf's fold
When it first comes, and the glamour that rests
On the little streams in the evening ; all of these Call me to her, and all the loveliness in the world Binds me to my beloved with strong chains of gold.
VIII
If the rose-petals which have fallen upon my eyes And if the perfect faces which I see at times
When my eyes are closed
Faces fragile, pale, yet flushed a little, like petals of roses :
If these things have confused my memories of her So that I could not draw her face
47
? Even if I had skill and the colours,
Yet because her face is so like these things
They but draw me nearer unto her in my thought
And thoughts of her come upon my mind gently, As dew upon the petals of roses.
IX
He speaks to the rain
O pearls that hang on your little silver chains, The innumerable voices that are whispering
Among you as you are drawn aside by the wind, Have brought to my mind the soft and eager speech Of one who hath great loveliness,
Which is subtle as the beauty of the rains That hang low in the moonshine and bring
The May softly among us, and unbind
The streams and the crimson and white flowers and
reach
Deep down into the secret places.
The glamour of the soul hath come upon me, And as the twilight comes upon the roses.
Walking silently among them,
So have the thoughts of my heart
Gone out slowly in the twilight
Toward my beloved,
Toward the crimson rose, the fairest.
? AUX BELLES DE LONDRES
I AM aweary with the utter and beautiful weariness And with the ultimate wisdom and with things terrene,
I am aweary with your smiles and your laughter, And the sun and the winds again
Reclaim their booty and the heart o' me.
FRANCESCA
You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hands.
Now you will come out of a confusion of people, Out of a turmoil of speech about you.
I who have seen you amid the primal things
Was angry when they spoke your name
In ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf, Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again, Alone.
49
? PRAYER
DAY and night are never weary,
Nor yet is God of creating
For day and night their torch-bearers
The half light of the dawn and the evening.
So, when I weary of praising the dawn and the sunset, Let me be no more counted among the immortals ;
But number me amid the wearying ones, Let me be a man as the herd,
And as the slave that is given in barter.
THE TREE
I STOOD still and was a tree amid the wood, Knowing the truth of things unseen before ; Of Daphne and the laurel bow
And that god-feasting couple old That grew elm-oak amid the wold.
'Twas not until the gods had been
Kindly entreated, and been brought within Unto the hearth of their heart's home
That they might do this wonder thing ; Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before.
? ON HIS OWN FACE IN A GLASS
O STRANGE face there in the glass !
O ribald company, O saintly host,
O sorrow-swept my fool, What answer? O ye myriad
That strive and play and pass,
Jest, challenge, counterlie ! I? I? I?
And ye?
THE EYES
REST Master, for we be a-weary, weary And would feel the fingers of the wind Upon these lids that lie over us
Sodden and lead-heavy.
Rest brother, for lo ! the dawn is without !
The yellow flame paleth And the wax runs low.
Free us, for without be goodly colours, Green of the wood-moss and flower colours, And coolness beneath the trees.
Free us, for we perish In this ever-flowing monotony Of ugly print marks, black Upon white parchment.
Free us, for there is one Whose smile more availeth
Than all the age-old knowledge of thy books : And we would look thereon.
l
5
? NILS LYKKE
INFINITE memories.
Why are you forever calling and murmuring in the dark there ?
And reaching out your hands between me and my beloved ?
And why are you forever casting The black shadow of your beauty
On the white face of my beloved
And glinting in the pools of her eyes ?
? PLANH FOR THE YOUNG ENGLISH KING
That is, Prince Henry Plantagenet, elder brother to Richard " Occur de Lion"
From the Prover^al of Bertrans de Born " Si tuit li dol elh plor elh marrimen. "
IF all the grief and woe and bitterness,
All dolour, ill and every evil chance
That ever came upon this grieving world Were set together they would seem but light
Against the death of the young English King. Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous,
The world overshadowed, soiled and overcast, Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness.
Grieving and sad and full of bitterness
Are left in teen the liegemen courteous,
The joglars supple and the troubadours.
O'er much hath ta'en Sir Death that deadly warrior
In taking from them the young English King, Who made the freest hand seem covetous.
'Las ! Never was nor will be in this world The balance for this loss in ire and sadness !
O skilful Death and full of bitterness,
Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalier That any folk e'er had, hast from us taken ;
Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth
But had its life in the young English King,
And better were it, should God grant his pleasure That he should live than many a living dastard That doth but wound the good with ire and sadness.
53
? From this faint world, how full of bitterness Love takes his way and holds his joy deceitful, Sith no thing is but turneth unto anguish
And each to-day 'vails less than yestere'en,
Let each man visage this young English King That was most valiant 'mid all worthiest men !
Gone is his body fine and amorous,
Whence have we grief, discord and deepest sadness.
Him, whom it pleased for our great bitterness To come to earth to draw us from misventure, Who drank of death for our salvacioun,
Him do we pray as to a Lord most righteous
And humble eke, that the young English King
He please to pardon, as true pardon is, And bid go in with honoured companions
There where there is no grief, nor shall be sadness.
54
? ALBA 1
From the Provencal
IN a garden where the whitethorn spreads her leaves My lady hath her love lain close beside her, Tillthewardercriesthedawn Ahdawnthatgrieves! Ah God ! Ah God ! That dawn should come so soon !
" Please God that night, dear night should never cease, Nor that my love should parted be from me, Norwatchcry'Dawn' Ahdawnthatslayethpeace! Ah God ! Ah God ! That dawn should come so soon !
" Fair friend and sweet, thy lips ! Our lips again ! Lo, in the meadow there the birds give song !
Ours be the love and Jealousy's the pain !
Ah God ! Ah God ! That dawn should come so soon !
"Sweet friend and fair take we our joy again
Down in the garden, where the birds are loud,
Till the warder's reed astrain
Cry God ! Ah God ! That dawn should come so soon !
" Of that sweet wind that comes from Far-Away Have I drunk deep of my Beloved's breath,
Yea ! of my Love's that is so dear and gay.
Ah God ! Ah God ! That dawn should come so soon !
Envoi
Fair is this damsel and right courteous,
And many watch her beauty's gracious ways, Her heart toward love is no wise traitorous.
Ah God ! Ah God ! That dawn should come so soon ! 1 VideautemQuiaPauper
55
? PLANH
Of White Thoughts he saw in a Forest
HEAVY with dreams,
Thou who art wiser than love,
Though I am hungry for their lips When I see them a-hiding
And a-passing out and in through the shadows
In the pine wood,
And they are white, like the clouds in the sky's forest
Ere the stars arise to their hunting ;
White Poppy, who art wiser than love, 1 am come for peace, yea from the hunting Am I come to thee for peace.
Out of a new sorrow it is,
That my hunting hath brought me.
White Poppy, heavy with dreams,
Though I am hungry for their lips When I see them a-hiding
And a-passing out and in through the shadows And it is white they are
But if one should look at me with the old hunger in
her eyes,
How will I be answering her eyes?