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OTHER VERSE |
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She hath a lord of her own—is wed— Forsooth a man of low dogree,
But many a league of land outspread,
He holds by a fief, inherited, And a vassal tenantry.
I have a fief; 'tis in my hand,
A blade that did never rust, And east and west in every land, I held my own, with the trusty brand,
But now it must sheathe in dust.
Why do I linger about her gates ?
I seldom see her, alas! And who but a laggard mopes and waits By the window the wan moon tessellates
To see her shadow pass ?
The gold of her hair has tangled me,
Yet I have never loved gold. The white of her throat, and the ivory Of her bosom, chained me in ecstacy When her lips the secret told.
I envy the lily upon her breast, The rose in her shining hair;
I chide the sun who lags in the west;
I wait in the garden she loves the best— She promised to meet me there. |
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