Chapter 8

Midway her round of solitude She used to haunt a dead sea-wood Where among boulders lifeless trees Stuck rigid fingers to the breeze-- That stream of faint hot air that flits Aimless at noon. 'Tis there she sits Hour after hour, and as a dove Croons when her breast is ripe for love, So sings this exile, quiet, sad chants Of love, yet knows not what she wants; And singing there in undertone, Is one day answered by the moan Of hidden mourner; but no fear Hath she for sound so true, though near; Nay, but sings out her elegy, Which, like an echo, answers he. Again she sings; he suits her mood, Nor breaks upon her solitude: So she, choragus, calls the tune, And as she leads he follows soon. As bird with bird vies in the brake, She sings no note he will not take-- As when she pleads, "Ah, my lost love, The night is dark thou art not of," Quick cometh answering the phrase, "O love, let all our nights be days!" This, rapt, with beating heart, she heeds And follows, "Sweet love, my heart bleeds! Come, stay the wound thyself didst give"; Then he, "I come to bid thee live." And so they carol, and her heart Swells to believe his counterpart, And strophé striketh clear, which he Caps with his brave antistrophe; And as a maiden waxes bold, And opens what should not be told When all her auditory she sees Within her mirror, so to trees And rocks, and sullen sounding main She empties all her passioned pain; And "love, love, love," her burden is, And "I am starving for thee," his. Moved, melted, all on fire she stands, Holding abroad her quivering hands, Raises her sweet eyes faint with tears And dares to seek him whom she hears; And from her parted lips a sigh Stealeth, as knowing he is nigh And her fate on her--then she'd shun That which she seeks; but the thing's done.

Hollow-voiced, dim, spake her a shade, "O thou that comest, nymph or maid-- If nymph, then maiden, since for aye Virgin is immortality, Nor love can change what Death cannot-- Look on me by love new-begot; Look on me, child new-born, nor start To see my form who knowest my heart; For it is thine. O Mother and Wife, Take then my love--thou gavest it life!"

So spake one close: to whom she lent The wonder of her eyes' content-- That lucent gray, as if moonlight Shone through a sapphire in the night-- And saw him faintly imaged, rare As wisp of cloud on hillside bare, A filamental form, a wraith Shaped like that man who in the faith Of one puts all his hope: who stood Trembling in her near neighbourhood, A thing of haunted eyes, of slim And youthful seeming; yet not dim, Yet not unmanly in his fashion Of speech, nor impotent of passion-- The which his tones gave earnest of And his aspéct of hopeless love; Who, drawing nearer, came to stand So close beside her that one hand Lit on her shoulder--yet no touch She felt: "O maiden overmuch," He grieved, "O body far too sweet For such as I, frail counterfeit Of man, who yet was once a man, Cut off before the midmost span Of mortal life was but half run, Or ere to love he had found one Like thee--yet happy in that fate, That waiting, he is fortunate: For better far in Hell to fare With thee than commerce otherwhere, Sharing the snug and fat outlook Of bed and board and ingle-nook With earth-bound woman, earth-born child. Nay, but high love is free and wild And centreth not in mortal things; But to the soul giveth he wings, And with the soul strikes partnership, So may two let corruption slip And breasting level, with far eyes Lifted, seek haven in the skies, Untrammel'd by the earthly mesh. O thou," said he, "of fairy flesh, Immortal prisoner, take of me Love! 'tis my heritage in fee; For I am very part thereof, And share the godhead." So his love Pled he with tones in love well-skilled Which on her bosom beat and thrilled, And pierced. No word nor look she had To voice her heart, or sad or glad. Rapt stood she, wooed by eager word And by her need, whose cry she heard Above his crying; but she guessed She was desired, beset, possessed Already, handfasted to sight, And yielding so, her heart she plight.

Thus was her mating: of the eyes And ears, and her love half surmise, Detected by her burning face Which saw, not felt, his fierce embrace. For on her own she knew no hand When caging it he seemed to stand, And round her waist felt not the warm Sheltered peace of the belting arm She saw him clasp withal. When rained His words upon her, or eyes strained As though her inmost shrine to pierce Where hid her heart of hearts, her ears Conceived, although her body sweet Might never feel a young life beat And leap within it. Ah, what cry That mistress e'er heard poet sigh Could voice thy beauty? Or what chant Of music be thy ministrant? Since thou art Music, poesy Must both thy spouse and increase be!

In the hot dust, where lizards crouch And pant, he made her bridal couch; Thither down drew her to his side And, phantom, taught her to be bride With words so ardent, looks so hot She needs must feel what she had not, Guess herself in beleaguered bed And throb response. Thus she was wed. As she whom Zeus loved in a cloud, So lay she in her lover's shroud, And o'er her members crept the chill We know when mist creeps up a hill Out of the vale at eve. As grows The ivy, rooting as it goes, In such a quick close envelope She lay aswoon, nor guessed the scope Nor tether of his hot intent, Nor what to that inert she lent, Save when at last with half-turned head And glimmering eyes, encompasséd She saw herself, a bride possest By ghostly bridegroom, held and prest To unfelt bosom, saw his mouth Against her own, which to his drouth Gave no allay that she could sense, Nor took of her sweet recompense. So moved by pity, stirred by rue, Out of their onslaught young love grew. Love that with delicate tongues of fire Can kindle hearts inflamed desire In her for him who needed it; And so she claimed and by eyes' wit Had what she would: and now made war, Being, as all sweet women are, Prudes till Love calls them, and then fierce In love's high calling. Thus with her ears She fed on love, and to her eyes Lent deeds of passionate emprise-- Till at the last, the shadowy strife Ended, she owned herself all wife.

High mating of the mind! O love, Since this must be, on this she throve! Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle, Since this must be, O love, let be!

_1911._

OREITHYIA

Oreithyia, by the North Wind carried To stormy Thrace from Athens where you tarried Down by Ilissus all a blowy day Among the asphodels, how rapt away Thither, and in what frozen bed wert married?

"I was a King's tall daughter still unwed, Slim and desirable my locks to shed Free from the fillet. He my maiden belt Undid with busy fingers hid but felt, And made me wife upon no marriage bed.

"As idly there I lay alone he came And blew upon my side, and beat a flame Into my cheeks, and kindled both my eyes. I suffered him who took no bodily guise: The light clouds know whether I was to blame.

"Into my mouth he blew an amorous breath; I panted, but lay still, as quiet as death. The whispering planes and sighing grasses know Whether it was the wind that loved me so: I know not--only this, 'O love,' he saith,

"'O long beset with love, and overloved, O easy saint, untempted and unproved, O walking stilly virgin ways in hiding, Come out, thou art too choice for such abiding! She never valued ease who never roved.

"'Thou mayst not see thy lover, but he now Is here, and claimeth thy low moonlit brow, Thy wonderful eyes, and lips that part and pout, And polished throat that like a flower shoots out From thy dark vesture folded and crossed low.'

"With that he had his way and went his way; For Gods have mastery, and a maiden's nay Grows faint ere it is whispered all. I sped Homeward with startled face and tiptoe tread, And up the stair, and in my chamber lay.

"Crouching I lay and quaked, and heard the wind Wail round the house like a mad thing confined, And had no rest; turn wheresoe'er I would This urgent lover stormed my solitude And beat against the haven of my mind.

"And over all a clamour and dis-ease Filled earth and air, and shuddered in my knees So that I could not stand, but by the wall Leaned pitifully breathing. Still his call Volleyed against the house and tore the trees.

"Then out my turret-window as I might I leaned my body to the blind wet night; That eager lover leapt me, circled round, Wreathed, folded, held me prisoner, wrapt and bound In manacles of terror and delight.

"That night he sealed me to him, and I went Thenceforth his leman, submiss and content; So from the hall and feast, whenas I heard His clear voice call, I flitted like a bird That beats the brake, and garnered what he lent.

"I was no maid that was no wife; my days Went by in dreams whose lights are golden haze And skies are crimson. Laughing not, nor crying, I strayed all witless with my loose hair flying, Bearing that load that women think their praise.

"And felt my breasts grow heavy with that food That women laugh to feel and think it good; But I went shamefast, hanging down my head, With girdle all too strait to serve my stead, And bore an unguessed burden in my blood.

"There was a winter night he came again And shook the window, till cried out my pain Unto him, saying, 'Lord, I dare not live! Lord, I must die of that which thou didst give! Pity me, Lord!' and fell. The winter rain

"Beat at the casement, burst it, and the wind Filled all the room, and swept me white and blind Into the night. I heard the sound of seas Beleaguer earth, I heard the roaring trees Singing together. We left them far behind.

"And so he bore me into stormy Thrace, Me and my load, and kissed back to my face The sweet new blood of youth, and to my limbs The wine of life; and there I bore him twins, Zethes and Calaïs, in a rock-bound place."

Oreithyia, by the North Wind carried To stormy Thrace, think you of how you tarried And let him woo and wed? "Ah, no, for now He's kissed all Athens from my open brow. I am the Wind's wife, wooed and won and married."

_1897._

CLYTIÉ

Hearken, O passers, what thing Fortuned in Hellas. A maid, Lissom and white as the roe, Lived recess'd in a glade. Clytié, Hamadryad, She was called that I sing-- Flower so fair, so frail, that to bring her a woe, Surely a pitiful thing!

A wild bright creature of trees, Brooks, and the sun among leaves, Clytié, grown to be maid: Ah, she had eyes like the sea's Iris of green and blue! White as sea-foam her brows, And her hair reedy and gold: So she grew and waxt supple and fit to be spouse In a king's palace of old.

All in a kirtle of green, With her tangle of red-gold hair, In the live heart of an oak, Clytié, harbouring there, Thronéd there as a queen, Clytié wondering woke: Ah, child, what set thee too high for thy sweet demesne, And who ponder'd the doleful stroke?

For the child that was maiden grown, The queen of the forest places, Clytié, Hamadryad, Tired of the joy she had, And the kingdom that was her own; And tired of the quick wood-races, And joy of herself in the pool when she wonder'd down, And tired of her budded graces.

And the child lookt up to the Sun And the burning track of his car In the broad serene above her: "O King Sun, be thou my lover, For my beauty is just begun. I am fresh and fair as a star; Come, lie where the lilies are: Behold, I am fair and dainty and white all over, And I waste in the wood unknown!"

Rose-flusht, daring, she strain'd Her young arms up, and she voiced The wild desire of her heart. The woodland heard her, the faun, The satyr, and things that start, Peering, heard her; the dove, crooning, complain'd In the pine-tree by the lawn. Only the runnel rejoiced In his rushy hollow apart To see her beauty flash up White and red as the dawn.

Sorrow, ye passers-by, The quick lift of her word, The crimson blush of her pride! Heard her the heavens' lord In his flaming seat in the sky: "Overbold of her years that will not be denied; She would be the Sun-God's bride!" His brow it was like the flat of a sword, And levin the glance of his side.

And he bent unto her, and his mouth Burnt her like coals of fire; He gazed with passionate eyes, Like flame that kindles and dries, And his breath suckt hers as the white rage of the South Draws life; his desire Was like to a tiger's drouth. What shall the slim maiden avail? Alas, and alas for her youth!

Tremble, O maids, that would set Your love-longing to the Sun! For Clytié mourn, and take heed How she loved her king and did bleed Ere kissing had yet begun. For lo! one shaft from his terrible eyes she met, And it burnt to her soul, and anon She paled, and the fever-fret Did bite to her bones; and wan She fell to rueing the deed.

Mark ye, maidens, and cower! Lo, for an end of breath, Clytié, hardy and frail, Anguisht after her death. For the Sun-flower droops and is pale When her king hideth his power, And ever draggeth the woe of her piteous tale, As a woman that laboureth Yet never reacheth the hour: So Clytié yearns to the Sun, for her wraith Moans in the bow'd sunflower.

Clytié, Hamadryad, Called was she that I sing: Flower so fair and frail that to work her this woe, Surely a pitiful thing!

_1894._

LAI OF GOBERTZ[1]

Of courteous Limozin wight, Gobertz, I will indite: From Poicebot had he his right Of gentlehood; Made monk in his own despite In San Léonart the white, Withal to sing and to write _Coblas_ he could.

Learning had he, and rare Music, and _gai saber_: No monk with him to compare In that monast'ry. Full lusty he was to bear Cowl and chaplet of hair God willeth monks for to wear For sanctity.

There in dortoir as he lay, To this Gobertz, by my fay, Came fair women to play In his sleep; Then he had old to pray, Fresh and silken came they, With eyen saucy and gray That set him weep.

May was the month, and soft The singing nights; up aloft The quarter moon swam and scoffed His unease. Rose this Gobertz, and doffed His habit, and left that croft, Crying _Eleison_ oft At Venus' knees.

Heartly the road and the town Mauléon, over the down, Sought he, and the renown Of Savaric; To that good knight he knelt down, Asking of him in bown Almesse of laurel crown For his music.

Fair him Savaric spake, "If _coblas_ you know to make, Song and music to wake For your part, Horse and lute shall you take Of _Jongleur_, lightly forsake Cloister for woodland brake With good heart."

Down the high month of May Now rideth Gobertz his way To Aix, to Puy, to Alais, To Albi the old; In Toulouse mindeth to stay With Count Simon the Gay, There to abide what day Love shall hold.

Shrill riseth his song: _Cobla_, _lai_, or _tenzon_, None can render him wrong In that _meinie_-- Love alone, that erelong Showed him in all that throng Of ladies Tibors the young, None but she.

She was high-hearted and fair, Low-breasted, with hair Gilded, and eyes of vair In burning face: On her Gobertz astare, Looking, stood quaking there To see so debonnair Hold her place.

Proud _donzela_ and free, To clip nor to kiss had she Talént, nor for minstrelsy Was she fain; Mistress never would be, Nor master have; but her fee She vowed to sweet Chastity, Her suzerain.

Then this Gobertz anon Returneth to Mauléon, To Savaric maketh moan On his knees. Other pray'r hath he none Save this, "Sir, let me begone Whence I came, since fordone My expertise."

Quod Savaric, "Hast thou sped So ill in _amors_?" Answeréd This Gobertz, "By my head, She scorneth me." "_Hauberc_ and arms then, instead Of lute and begarlanded Poll, take you," he said, "For errantry."

Now rides he out, a dubbed knight, The Spanish road, for to fight Paynimry; day and night Urgeth he; In Saragoza the bright, And Pampluna with might Seeketh he what respite For grief there be.

War-dimmed grew his gear, Grim his visage; in fear Listened Mahound his cheer Deep in Hell. Fled his legions to hear Gobertz the knight draw near. Now he closeth the year In Compostell.

Offering there hath he made Saint James, candles him paid, Gold on the shrine hath laid; Now Gobertz Is for Toulouse, where that maid Tibors wonned unafraid Of Love and his accolade That breaketh hearts.

He rode north and by east, Nor rider spared he nor beast, Nor tempered spur till at least Forth of Spain; Not for mass-bell nor priest, For fast-day nor yet for feast Stayed he, till voyage ceased In Aquitaine.

Now remaineth to tell What this Gobertz befell When that he sought hostel In his land. Dined he well, drank he well, Envy then had somedeal With women free in _bordel_ For to spend.

In poor _alberc_ goeth he Where bought pleasure may be, Careless proffereth fee For his bliss. O Gobertz, look to thee. Such a sight shalt thou see Will make the red blood to flee Thy heart, ywis.

Fair woman they bring him in Shamefast in her burning sin, All afire is his skin _Par amors_. Look not of her look to win, Dare not lift up her chin, Gobertz; in that soiled fond thing Lo, Tibors!

"O love, O love, out, alas! That it should come to this pass, And thou be even as I was In green youth, Whenas delight and solace Served I with wantonness, And burned anon like the grass To this ruth!"

But then lift she her sad eyes, Gray like wet morning skies, That wait the sun to arise, Tears to amend. "Gobertz, _amic_," so she cries, "By Jesus' agonies Hither come I by lies Of false friend.

"Sir Richart de Laund he hight, Who fair promised me plight Of word and ring, on a night Of no fame; So then evilly bright Had his will and delight Of me, and fled unrequite For my shame!

"Alas, and now to my thought Flieth the woe that I wrought Thee, Gobertz, that distraught Thou didst fare. Now a vile thing of nought Fare I that once was so haught And free, and could not be taught By thy care."

But Gobertz seeth no less Her honour and her sweetness, Soon her small hand to kiss Taketh he, Saying, "Now for that stress Drave thee here thou shalt bless God, for so ending this Thy penury."

Yet she would bid him away, Seeking her sooth to say, In what woful array She was cast. "Nay," said he, "but, sweet may, Here must we bide until day: Then to church and to pray Go we fast."

Now then to all his talént, Seeing how he was bent, Him the comfort she lent Of her mind. Cried Gobertz, well content, "If love by dreariment Cometh, that was well spent, As I find."

Thereafter somewhat they slept, When to his arms she had crept For comfort, and freely wept Sin away. Up betimes then he leapt, Calling her name: forth she stept Meek, disposed, to accept What he say.

By hill road taketh he her To the gray nuns of Beaucaire, There to shred off her hair And take veil. Himself to cloister will fare Monk to be, with good care For their two souls. May his pray'r Them avail!

_1911._

[1] I owe the substance of this _lai_ to my friend Ezra Pound, who unearthed it, ψαμάθῳ εἰλυμένα πολλῇ, in some Provençal repertory.

THE SAINTS' MAYING

Since green earth is awake Let us now pastime take, Not serving wantonness Too well, nor niggardness, Which monks of men would make.

But clothed like earth in green, With jocund hearts and clean, We will take hands and go Singing where quietly blow The flowers of Spring's demesne.

The cuckoo haileth loud The open sky; no cloud Doth fleck the earth's blue tent; The land laughs, well content To put off winter shroud.

Now, since 'tis Easter Day, All Christians may have play; The young Saints, all agaze For Christ in Heaven's maze, May laugh who wont to pray.

Then welcome to our round They light on homely ground:-- Agnes, Saint Cecily, Agatha, Dorothy, Margaret, Hildegonde;

Next come with Barbara Lucy and Ursula; And last, queen of the Nine, Clear-eyed Saint Catherine Joyful arrayeth her.

Then chooseth each her lad, And after frolic had Of dance and carolling And playing in a ring, Seek all the woodland shade.

And there for each his lass Her man a nosegay has, Which better than word spoken Might stand to be her token And emblem of her grace.

For Cecily, who bent Her slim white neck and went To Heaven a virgin still, The nodding daffodil, That bends but is not shent.

Lucy, whose wounded eyes Opened in Heaven star-wise, The lady-smock, whose light Doth prank the grass with white, Taketh for badge and prize.

Because for Lord Christ's hest Men shore thy warm bright breast, Agatha, see thy part Showed in the burning heart Of the white crocus best.

What fate was Barbara's Shut in the tower of brass, We figure and hold up Within the stiff king-cup That crowns the meadow grass.

Agnes, than whose King Death Stayed no more delicate breath On earth, we give for dower Wood-sorrel, that frail flower That Spring first quickeneth.

Dorothy, whose shrill voice Bade Heathendom rejoice, The sweet-breath'd cowslip hath; And Margaret, who in death Saw Heaven, her pearly choice.

Then she of virgin brood Whom Prince of Britain woo'd, Ursula, takes by favour The hyacinth whose savour Enskies the sunny wood.

Hildegonde, whose spirit high The Cross did not deny, Yet blusht to feel the shame, Anemones must claim, Whose roses early die.

Last, she who gave in pledge Her neck to the wheel's edge, Taketh the fresh primrose Which (even as she her foes) Redeems the wintry hedge.