Hate crouched near him as he strode Through the blackness of the road, Where my Lord seemed some huge toad.
Eyes of murder glared and burned At each bend of road he turned, And where wild the torrent churned.
And with Death _we_ stood and stared From the bush as by he fared,-- But he never looked or cared.
He went singing; and a rose Lay upon his heart's repose-- With what thought of her--who knows?
He had done no other wrong Save to sing a simple song, "_I have loved you--loved you long_."
And my lady smiled and sighed; Gave a rose and looked moist eyed, And forgot she was a bride.
My sweet lady, Jehan de Grace, With the pale Madonna face, He had brought to his embrace.
And my Lord saw: gave commands: I was of his bandit bands.-- Love should perish at our hands.
Young the Knight was. He should sing Nevermore of love or spring, Or of any gentle thing.
When he stole at midnight's hour, To my Lady's forest bower, We were hidden near the tower.
In the woods of Trebizend There he met an evil end.-- Night, you know, is no man's friend.
He has fought in fort and field; Borne for years a stainless shield, And in strength to none would yield.
But we seized him unaware, Bound and hung him; stripped him bare, Left him to the wild boars there.
Never has my Lady known.-- But she often sits alone, Weeping when my Lord is gone....
Night, they say, is no man's friend.-- In the woods of Trebizend There he met an evil end.
Now my old Lord sleeps in peace, While my Lady--each one sees-- Waits, and keeps her memories.
Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon The sea-mists swoon: Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow Goes winging slow: Dim fields, the sower never sows, Or reaps or mows: And near the sea a ghostly house of stone Where all is old and lone.
A garden, falling in decay, Where statues gray Peer, broken, out of tangled weed And thorny seed: Satyr and Nymph, that once made love By walk and grove: And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mold, A sundial, lichen-old.
Like some sad life bereft, To musing left, The house stands: love and youth Both gone, in sooth: But still it sits and dreams: And round it seems Some memory of the past, still young and fair, Haunting each crumbling stair.