A Jongleur Strayed | Page 5

her to a glassy spring,
And bade her look and see
If any
girl in all the world
Had such fine clothes as she.
THE VALLEY
I will walk down to the valley
And lay my head in her breast,

Where are two white doves,
The Queen of Love's,
In a silken nest;

And, all the afternoon,
They croon and croon
The one word

"Rest!"
And a little stream
That runs thereby
Sings "Dream!"

Over and over
It sings--
"O lover,
Dream!"
BALLADE OF THE BEES OF TREBIZOND
There blooms a flower in Trebizond
Stored with such honey for the
bee,
(So saith the antique book I conned)
Of such alluring fragrancy,

Not sweeter smells the Eden-tree;
Thither the maddened feasters
fly,
Yet--so alas! is it with me--
To taste that honey is to die.
Belovèd, I, as foolish fond,
Feast still my eyes and heart on thee,

Asking no blessedness beyond
Thy face from morn till night to see,

Ensorcelled past all remedy;
Even as those foolish bees am I,

Though well I know my destiny--
To taste that honey is to die.
O'er such a doom shall I despond?
I would not from thy snare go free,

Release me not from thy sweet bond,
I live but in thy mystery;

Though all my senses from me flee,
I still would glut my glazing eye,

Thou nectar of mortality--
To taste that honey is to die.
ENVOI
Princess, before I cease to be,
Bend o'er my lips so burning dry
Thy
honeycombs of ivory--
To taste that honey is to die.
BROKEN TRYST
Waiting in the woodland, watching for my sweet,
Thinking every leaf
that stirs the coming of her feet,
Thinking every whisper the rustle of
her gown,
How my heart goes up and up, and then goes down and
down.
First it is a squirrel, then it is a dove,
Then a red fox feather-soft and
footed like a dream;
All the woodland fools me, promising my love;

I think I hear her talking--'tis but the running stream.

Vowelled talking water, mimicking her voice--
O how she promised
she'd surely come to-day!
There she comes! she comes at last! O
heart of mine rejoice-- Nothing but a flight of birds winging on their
way.
Lonely grows the afternoon, empty grows the world;
Day's bright
banners in the west one by one are furled,
Sadly sinks the lingering
sun that like a lover rose,
One by one each woodland thing loses heart
and goes.
Back along the woodland, all the day is dead,
All the green has turned
to gray, and all the gold to lead; O 'tis bitter cruel, sweet, to treat a lover
so:
If only I were half a man . . . I'd let the baggage go.
THE RIVAL
She failed me at the tryst:
All the long afternoon
The golden day
went by,
Until the rising moon;
But, as I waited on,
Turning my
eyes about,
Aching for sight of her,
Until the stars came out,--

Maybe 'twas but a dream--
There close against my face,
"Beauty
am I," said one,
"I come to take her place."
And then I understood
Why, all the waiting through,
The green had
seemed so green,
The blue had seemed so blue,
The song of bird
and stream
Had been so passing sweet,
For all the coming not
Of
her forgetful feet;
And how my heart was tranced,
For all its lonely
ache,
Gazing on mirrored rushes
Sky-deep in the lake.
Said
Beauty: "Me you love,
You love her for my sake."
THE QUARREL
Thou shall not me persuade
This love of ours
Can in a moment fade,

Like summer flowers;
That a swift word or two,
In angry haste,
Our heaven shall undo,



Our hearts lay waste.
For a poor flash of pride,
A cold word spoken,
Love shall not be
denied,
Or long troth broken.
Yea; wilt thou not relent?
Be mine the wrong,
No more the
argument,
Dear love, prolong.
The summer days go by,
Cease that sweet rain,
Those angry
crystals dry,
Be friends again.
So short a time at best
Is ours to play,
Come, take me to thy breast--

Ah! that's the way.
LOVERS
Why should I ask perfection of thee, sweet,
That have so little of
mine own to bring?
That thou art beautiful from head to feet--
Is
that, beloved, such a little thing,
That I should ask more of thee, and
should fling
Thy largesse from me, in a world like this,
O generous
giver of thy perfect kiss?
Thou gavest me thy lips, thine eyes, thine hair;
I brought thee
worship--was it not thy due?
If thou art cruel--still art thou not fair?

Roses thou gavest--shalt thou not bring rue?
Alas! have I not
brought thee sorrow too?
How dare I face the future and its drouth,

Missing that golden honeycomb thy mouth?
Kiss and make up--'tis the wise ancient way;
Back to my arms, O
bountiful deep breast!
No more of words that know not what they say;

To kiss is wisdom--folly all the rest.
Dear loveliness so mercifully
pressed
Against my heart--I shake with sudden fear
To think--to
losing thee I came so near.
SHADOWS

Shadows! the only shadows that I know
Are happy shadows of the
light of you,
The radiance immortal shining through
Your sea-deep
eyes up from the soul below;
Your shadow, like a rose's, on the grass

Where your feet pass.
The shadow of the dimple in your chin,
The shadow of the lashes