We are in love's land to-day; Where shall we go? Love, shall we start or stay, Or sail or row? There's many a wind and way, And never a May but May; We are in love's hand to-day; Where shall we go?
Our landwind is the breath Of sorrows kissed to death And joys that were; Our ballast is a rose; Our way lies where God knows And love knows where. We are in love's hand to-day--
Our seamen are fledged Loves, Our masts are bills of doves, Our decks fine gold; Our ropes are dead maids' hair, Our stores are love-shafts fair And manifold. We are in love's land to-day--
Where shall we land you, sweet? On fields of strange men's feet, Or fields near home? Or where the fire-flowers blow, Or where the flowers of snow Or flowers of foam? We are in love's hand to-day--
Land me, she says, where love Shows but one shaft, one dove, One heart, one hand. --A shore like that, my dear, Lies where no man will steer, No maiden land.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE VIDAME DE CHARTRES
When the fields catch flower And the underwood is green, And from bower unto bower The songs of the birds begin, I sing with sighing between. When I laugh and sing, I am heavy at heart for my sin; I am sad in the spring For my love that I shall not win, For a foolish thing.
This profit I have of my woe, That I know, as I sing, I know he will needs have it so Who is master and king, Who is lord of the spirit of spring. I will serve her and will not spare Till her pity awake Who is good, who is pure, who is fair, Even her for whose sake Love hath ta'en me and slain unaware.
O my lord, O Love, I have laid my life at thy feet; Have thy will thereof, Do as it please thee with it, For what shall please thee is sweet. I am come unto thee To do thee service, O Love; Yet cannot I see Thou wilt take any pity thereof, Any mercy on me.
But the grace I have long time sought Comes never in sight, If in her it abideth not, Through thy mercy and might, Whose heart is the world's delight. Thou hast sworn without fail I shall die, For my heart is set On what hurts me, I wot not why, But cannot forget What I love, what I sing for and sigh.
She is worthy of praise, For this grief of her giving is worth All the joy of my days That lie between death's day and birth, All the lordship of things upon earth. Nay, what have I said? I would not be glad if I could; My dream and my dread Are of her, and for her sake I would That my life were fled.