Imagens da página
PDF
ePub

Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down! he said,
And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.

He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.

I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise,
For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;

In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears,
But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;

Yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry, I am so feeble now, would I might die.

And in truth the great bell overhead
Left off his pealing for the dead,
Perchance, because the wind was dead.

Will he come back again, or is he dead?
O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?

Or did they strangle him as he lay there,
With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?

Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here!
Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.

Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive
Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.

Through the floor shot up a lily red,

With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,
For he was strong in the land of the dead.

Jiriczek, Englische Dichter.

24

What matter that his cheeks were pale,
His kind kiss'd lips all grey?
O, love Louise, have you waited long?
O, my lord Arthur, yea.

What if his hair that brush'd her cheek
Was stiff with frozen rime?
His eyes were grown quite blue again,
As in the happy time.

O, love Louise, this is the key
Of the happy golden land!
O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,
My eyes are full of sand.
What matter that I cannot see,
If ye take me by the hand?

And ever the great bell overhead,
And the tumbling seas mourn'd for the dead;
For their song ceased, and they were dead.

THE TUNE OF SEVEN TOWERS. [The Defence of Guenevere etc. 1858.]

No one goes there now;

For what is left to fetch away
From the desolate battlements all arow,
And the lead roof heavy and grey?
Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,
This is the tune of Seven Towers.

No one walks there now;
Except in the white moonlight

The white ghosts walk in a row;
If one could see it, an awful sight.
Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,
This is the tune of Seven Towers.

But none can see them now,

Though they sit by the side of the moat, Feet half in the water, there in a row, Long hair in the wind afloat. Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers.

If any will go to it now,

He must go to it all alone,
Its gates will not open to any row

Of glittering spears: will you go alone?
Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,
This is the tune of Seven Towers.

By my love go there now,
To fetch me my coif away,

My coif and my kirtle, with pearls arow,
Oliver, go to-day!

Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,
This is the tune of Seven Towers.

I am unhappy now,

I cannot tell you why;

If you go, the priests and I in a row Will pray that you may not die. Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers.

If

you will go for me now,
I will kiss your mouth at last;

[She sayeth inwardly.]
(The graves stand grey in a row.)
Oliver, hold me fast!
Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,
This is the tune of Seven Towers.

NEAR AVALON.

[The Defence of Guenevere etc. 1858.]

A SHIP with shields before the sun,
Six maidens round the mast,

A red-gold crown on every one,
A green gown on the last.

The fluttering green banners there
Are wrought with ladies' heads most fair,
And a portraiture of Guenevere
The middle of each sail doth bear.

A ship with sails before the wind,
And round the helm six knights,

Their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind,
They pass by many sights.

The tatter'd scarlet banners there

Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare.
Those six knights sorrowfully bear

In all their heaumes some yellow hair.

A GARDEN BY THE SEA.

[Poems by the Way 1891. Mit geringen Abweichungen, bereits in "Jason" 1867.]

[ocr errors]

I KNOW a little garden-close,

Set thick with lily and red rose,

Where I would wander if I might
From dewy morn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillared house is there,
And though the apple-boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God
Her feet upon the green grass trod,
And I beheld them as before.

There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the close two fair streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar,
Drawn down unto the restless sea:
Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee,
Dark shore no ship has ever seen,
Tormented by the billows green
Whose murmur comes unceasingly
Unto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night,
For which I let slip all delight,
Whereby I grow both deaf and blind,
Careless to win, unskilled to find,
And quick to lose what all men seek.

Yet tottering as I am and weak,
Still have I left a little breath
To seek within the jaws of death
An entrance to that happy place,
To seek the unforgotten face,

Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me
Anigh the murmuring of the sea.

« AnteriorContinuar »