Poems By The Way & Love Is Enough E-Book

William Morris

• Herausgeber: Interactive Media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Poems By The Way & Love Is Enough

Leseprobe

William Morris

Poems By The Way & Love Is Enough

New Edition

LONDON ∙ NEW YORK ∙ TORONTO ∙ SAO PAULO ∙ MOSCOW

PARIS ∙ MADRID ∙ BERLIN ∙ ROME ∙ MEXICO CITY ∙ MUMBAI ∙ SEOUL ∙ DOHA

TOKYO ∙ SYDNEY ∙ CAPE TOWN ∙ AUCKLAND ∙ BEIJING

New Edition

Published by Sovereign Classic

This Edition

First published in 2019

Copyright © 2019 Sovereign Classic

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 9781787360518

Contents

POEMS BY THE WAY

POEMS BY THE WAY

FROM THE UPLAND TO THE SEA

Shall we wake one morn of spring,

Glad at heart of everything,

Yet pensive with the thought of eve?

Then the white house shall we leave.

Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,

Through the garth, and go our ways,

Wandering down among the meads

Till our very joyance needs

Rest at last; till we shall come

To that Sun-god’s lonely home,

Lonely on the hillside grey,

Whence the sheep have gone away;

Lonely till the feast-time is,

When with prayer and praise of bliss,

Thither comes the country side.

There awhile shall we abide,

Sitting low down in the porch

By that image with the torch:

Thy one white hand laid upon

The black pillar that was won

From the far-off Indian mine;

And my hand nigh touching thine,

But not touching; and thy gown

Fair with spring-flowers cast adown

From thy bosom and thy brow.

There the south-west wind shall blow

Through thine hair to reach my cheek,

As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,

Nor mayst move the hand I kiss

For the very depth of bliss;

Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me.

Then desire of the great sea

Nigh enow, but all unheard,

In the hearts of us is stirred,

And we rise, we twain at last,

And the daffodils downcast,

Feel thy feet and we are gone

From the lonely Sun-Crowned one,

Then the meads fade at our back,

And the spring day ‘gins to lack

That fresh hope that once it had;

But we twain grow yet more glad,

And apart no more may go

When the grassy slope and low

Dieth in the shingly sand:

Then we wander hand in hand

By the edges of the sea,

And I weary more for thee

Than if far apart we were,

With a space of desert drear

‘Twixt thy lips and mine, O love!

Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!

OF THE WOOING OF HALLBIORN THE STRONG

A STORY FROM THE LAND-SETTLING BOOK OF ICELAND, CHAPTER XXX.

At Deildar-Tongue in the autumn-tide,

So many times over comes summer again,

Stood Odd of Tongue his door beside.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Dim and dusk the day was grown,

As he heard his folded wethers moan.

Then through the garth a man drew near,

With painted shield and gold-wrought spear.

Good was his horse and grand his gear,

And his girths were wet with Whitewater.

“Hail, Master Odd, live blithe and long!

How fare the folk at Deildar-Tongue?”

“All hail, thou Hallbiorn the Strong!

How fare the folk by the Brothers’-Tongue?”

“Meat have we there, and drink and fire,

Nor lack all things that we desire.

But by the other Whitewater

Of Hallgerd many a tale we hear.”

“Tales enow may my daughter make

If too many words be said for her sake.”

“What saith thine heart to a word of mine,

That I deem thy daughter fair and fine?

Fair and fine for a bride is she,

And I fain would have her home with me.”

“Full many a word that at noon goes forth

Comes home at even little worth.

Now winter treadeth on autumn-tide,

So here till the spring shalt thou abide.

Then if thy mind be changed no whit.

And ye still will wed, see ye to it!

And on the first of summer days,

A wedded man, ye may go your ways.

Yet look, howso the thing will fall,

My hand shall meddle nought at all.

Lo, now the night and rain draweth up.

And within doors glimmer stoop and cup.

And hark, a little sound I know,

The laugh of Snæbiorn’s fiddle-bow,

My sister’s son, and a craftsman good,

When the red rain drives through the iron wood.”

Hallbiorn laughed, and followed in,

And a merry feast there did begin.

Hallgerd’s hands undid his weed,

Hallgerd’s hands poured out the mead.

Her fingers at his breast he felt,

As her hair fell down about his belt.

Her fingers with the cup he took,

And o’er its rim at her did look.

Cold cup, warm hand, and fingers slim.

Before his eyes were waxen dim.

And if the feast were foul or fair,

He knew not, save that she was there.

He knew not if men laughed or wept,

While still ‘twixt wall and daïs she stept.

Whether she went or stood that eve,

Not once his eyes her face did leave.

But Snæbiorn laughed and Snæbiorn sang,

And sweet his smitten fiddle rang.

And Hallgerd stood beside him there,

So many times over comes summer again

Nor ever once he turned to her,

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Master Odd on the morrow spake,

So many times over comes summer again.

“Hearken, O guest, if ye be awake,”

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

“Sure ye champions of the south

Speak many things from a silent mouth.

And thine, meseems, last night did pray

That ye might well be wed to-day.

The year’s ingathering feast it is,

A goodly day to give thee bliss.

Come hither, daughter, fine and fair,

Here is a wooer from Whitewater.

Fast away hath he gotten fame,

And his father’s name is e’en my name.

Will ye lay hand within his hand,

That blossoming fair our house may stand?”

She laid her hand within his hand;

White she was as the lily wand.

Low sang Snæbiorn’s brand in its sheath,

And his lips were waxen grey as death.

“Snæbiorn, sing us a song of worth.

If your song must be silent from now henceforth.

Clear and loud his voice outrang,

And a song of worth at the wedding he sang.

“Sharp sword,” he sang, “and death is sure.”

So many times over comes summer again,

“But love doth over all endure.”

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Now winter cometh and weareth away,

So many times over comes summer again,

And glad is Hallbiorn many a day.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Full soft he lay his love beside;

But dark are the days of winter-tide.

Dark are the days, and the nights are long,

And sweet and fair was Snæbiorn’s song.

Many a time he talked with her,

Till they deemed the summer-tide was there.

And they forgat the wind-swept ways

And angry fords of the flitting-days.

While the north wind swept the hillside there

They forgat the other Whitewater.

While nights at Deildar-Tongue were long,

They clean forgat the Brothers’-Tongue.

But whatso falleth ‘twixt Hell and Home,

So many times over comes summer again,

Full surely again shall summer come.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

To Odd spake Hallbiorn on a day

So many times over comes summer again,

“Gone is the snow from everyway.”

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

“Now green is grown Whitewater-side,

And I to Whitewater will ride.”

Quoth Odd, “Well fare thou winter-guest,

May thine own Whitewater be best

Well is a man’s purse better at home

Than open where folk go and come.”

“Come ye carles of the south country,

Now shall we go our kin to see!

For the lambs are bleating in the south,

And the salmon swims towards Olfus mouth,

Girth and graithe and gather your gear!

And ho for the other Whitewater!”

Bright was the moon as bright might be,

And Snæbiorn rode to the north country.

And Odd to Reykholt is gone forth,

To see if his mares be ought of worth.

But Hallbiorn into the bower is gone

And there sat Hallgerd all alone.

She was not dight to go nor ride,

She had no joy of the summer-tide.

Silent she sat and combed her hair,

That fell all round about her there.

The slant beam lay upon her head,

And gilt her golden locks to red.

He gazed at her with hungry eyes

And fluttering did his heart arise.

“Full hot,” he said, “is the sun to-day,

And the snow is gone from the mountain-way

The king-cup grows above the grass,

And through the wood do the thrushes pass.”

Of all his words she hearkened none,

But combed her hair amidst the sun.

“The laden beasts stand in the garth

And their heads are turned to Helliskarth.”

The sun was falling on her knee,

And she combed her gold hair silently.

“To-morrow great will be the cheer

At the Brothers’-Tongue by Whitewater.”

From her folded lap the sunbeam slid;

She combed her hair, and the word she hid.

“Come, love; is the way so long and drear

From Whitewater to Whitewater?”

The sunbeam lay upon the floor;

She combed her hair and spake no more.

He drew her by the lily hand:

“I love thee better than all the land.”

He drew her by the shoulders sweet:

“My threshold is but for thy feet.”

He drew her by the yellow hair:

“O why wert thou so deadly fair?

O am I wedded to death?” he cried,

“Is the Dead-strand come to Whitewater side?”

And the sun was fading from the room,

But her eyes were bright in the change and the gloom.

“Sharp sword,” she sang, “and death is sure,

But over all doth love endure.”

She stood up shining in her place

And laughed beneath his deadly face.

Instead of the sunbeam gleamed a brand,

The hilts were hard in Hallbiorn’s hand:

The bitter point was in Hallgerd’s breast

That Snæbiorn’s lips of love had pressed.

Morn and noon, and nones passed o’er,

And the sun is far from the bower door.

To-morrow morn shall the sun come back,

So many times over comes summer again,

But Hallgerd’s feet the floor shall lack.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Now Hallbiorn’s house-carles ride full fast,

So many times over comes summer again,

Till many a mile of way is past.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

But when they came over Oxridges,

‘Twas, “Where shall we give our horses ease?”

When Shieldbroad-side was well in sight,

‘Twas, “Where shall we lay our heads to-night?”

Hallbiorn turned and raised his head;

“Under the stones of the waste,” he said.

Quoth one, “The clatter of hoofs anigh.”

Quoth the other, “Spears against the sky!”

“Hither ride men from the Wells apace;

Spur we fast to a kindlier place.”

Down from his horse leapt Hallbiorn straight:

“Why should the supper of Odin wait?

Weary and chased I will not come

To the table of my fathers’ home.”

With that came Snæbiorn, who but he,

And twelve in all was his company.

Snæbiorn’s folk were on their feet;

He spake no word as they did meet.

They fought upon the northern hill:

Five are the howes men see there still.

Three men of Snæbiorn’s fell to earth

And Hallbiorn’s twain that were of worth.

And never a word did Snæbiorn say,

Till Hallbiorn’s foot he smote away.

Then Hallbiorn cried: “Come, fellow of mine,

To the southern bent where the sun doth shine.”

Tottering into the sun he went,

And slew two more upon the bent.

And on the bent where dead he lay

Three howes do men behold to-day.

And never a word spake Snæbiorn yet,

Till in his saddle he was set.

Nor was there any heard his voice,

So many times over comes summer again

Till he came to his ship in Grimsar-oyce.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

On so fair a day they hoisted sail,

So many times over comes summer again,

And for Norway well did the wind avail.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

But Snæbiorn looked aloft and said:

“I see in the sail a stripe of red:

Murder, meseems, is the name of it,

And ugly things about it flit.

A stripe of blue in the sail I see:

Cold death of men it seems to me.

And next I see a stripe of black,

For a life fulfilled of bitter lack.”

Quoth one, “So fair a wind doth blow

That we shall see Norway soon enow.”

“Be blithe, O shipmate,” Snæbiorn said,

“Tell Hacon the Earl that I be dead.”

About the midst of the Iceland main

Round veered the wind to the east again.

And west they drave, and long they ran

Till they saw a land was white and wan.

“Yea,” Snæbiorn said, “my home it is,

Ye bear a man shall have no bliss.

Far off beside the Greekish sea

The maidens pluck the grapes in glee.

Green groweth the wheat in the English land,

And the honey-bee flieth on every hand.

In Norway by the cheaping town

The laden beasts go up and down.

In Iceland many a mead they mow

And Hallgerd’s grave grows green enow.

But these are Gunnbiorn’s skerries wan,

Meet harbour for a hapless man.

In all lands else is love alive,

But here is nought with grief to strive.

Fail not for a while, O eastern wind,

For nought but grief is left behind.

And before me here a rest I know,”

So many times over comes summer again,

“A grave beneath the Greenland snow,”

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

ECHOES OF LOVE’S HOUSE

Love gives every gift whereby we long to live:

“Love takes every gift, and nothing back doth give.”

Love unlocks the lips that else were ever dumb:

“Love locks up the lips whence all things good might come.”

Love makes clear the eyes that else would never see:

“Love makes blind the eyes to all but me and thee.”

Love turns life to joy till nought is left to gain:

“Love turns life to woe till hope is nought and vain.”

Love, who changest all, change me nevermore!

“Love, who changest all, change my sorrow sore!”

Love burns up the world to changeless heaven and blest,

“Love burns up the world to a void of all unrest.”

And there we twain are left, and no more work we need:

“And I am left alone, and who my work shall heed?”

Ah! I praise thee, Love, for utter joyance won!

“And is my praise nought worth for all my life undone?”

THE BURGHERS’ BATTLE

Thick rise the spear-shafts o’er the land

That erst the harvest bore;

The sword is heavy in the hand,

And we return no more.

The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox,

Our banner of the war,

And ripples in the Running Ox,

And we return no more.

Across our stubble acres now

The teams go four and four;

But out-worn elders guide the plough,

And we return no more.

And now the women heavy-eyed

Turn through the open door

From gazing down the highway wide,

Where we return no more.

The shadows of the fruited close

Dapple the feast-hall floor;

There lie our dogs and dream and doze,

And we return no more.

Down from the minster tower to-day

Fall the soft chimes of yore

Amidst the chattering jackdaws’ play:

And we return no more.

But underneath the streets are still;

Noon, and the market’s o’er!

Back go the goodwives o’er the hill;

For we return no more.

What merchant to our gates shall come?

What wise man bring us lore?

What abbot ride away to Rome,

Now we return no more?

What mayor shall rule the hall we built?

Whose scarlet sweep the floor?

What judge shall doom the robber’s guilt,

Now we return no more?

New houses in the street shall rise

Where builded we before,

Of other stone wrought otherwise;

For we return no more.

And crops shall cover field and hill

Unlike what once they bore,

And all be done without our will,

Now we return no more.

Look up! the arrows streak the sky,

The horns of battle roar;

The long spears lower and draw nigh,

And we return no more.

Remember how beside the wain,

We spoke the word of war,

And sowed this harvest of the plain,

And we return no more.

Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox!

The days of old are o’er;

Heave sword about the Running Ox!

For we return no more.

HOPE DIETH: LOVE LIVETH

Strong are thine arms, O love, and strong

Thine heart to live, and love, and long;

But thou art wed to grief and wrong:

Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!

Live on, and labour through the years!

Make pictures through the mist of tears,

Of unforgotten happy fears,

That crossed the time ere hope was dead.

Draw near the place where once we stood

Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,

And we and all the world seemed good

Nor needed hope now cold and dead.

Dream in the dawn I come to thee

Weeping for things that may not be!

Dream that thou layest lips on me!

Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead!

Count o’er and o’er, and one by one,

The minutes of the happy sun

That while agone on kissed lips shone,

Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.

Weep, though no hair’s breadth thou shalt move

The living Earth, the heaven above,

By all the bitterness of love!

Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!

Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,

Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:

The years change not, though they decrease,

For hope is dead, for hope is dead.

Speak, love, I listen: far away

I bless the tremulous lips, that say,

“Mock not the afternoon of day,

Mock not the tide when hope is dead!”

I bless thee, O my love, who say’st:

“Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;

I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste

Down the long way, now hope is dead.

With other names do we name pain,

The long years wear our hearts in vain.

Mock not our loss grown into gain,

Mock not our lost hope lying dead.

Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,

No glimmer of the dawn afar;

Full silent wayfarers we are

Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.

Behold with lack of happiness

The master, Love, our hearts did bless

Lest we should think of him the less:

Love dieth not, though hope is dead!”

ERROR AND LOSS

Upon an eve I sat me down and wept,

Because the world to me seemed nowise good;

Still autumn was it, and the meadows slept,

The misty hills dreamed, and the silent wood

Seemed listening to the sorrow of my mood:

I knew not if the earth with me did grieve,

Or if it mocked my grief that bitter eve.

Then ‘twixt my tears a maiden did I see,

Who drew anigh me on the leaf-strewn grass,

Then stood and gazed upon me pitifully

With grief-worn eyes, until my woe did pass

From me to her, and tearless now I was,

And she mid tears was asking me of one

She long had sought unaided and alone.

I knew not of him, and she turned away

Into the dark wood, and my own great pain

Still held me there, till dark had slain the day,

And perished at the grey dawn’s hand again;

Then from the wood a voice cried: “Ah, in vain,

In vain I seek thee, O thou bitter-sweet!

In what lone land are set thy longed-for feet?”

Then I looked up, and lo, a man there came

From midst the trees, and stood regarding me

Until my tears were dried for very shame;

Then he cried out: “O mourner, where is she

Whom I have sought o’er every land and sea?

I love her and she loveth me, and still

We meet no more than green hill meeteth hill.”

With that he passed on sadly, and I knew

That these had met and missed in the dark night,

Blinded by blindness of the world untrue,

That hideth love and maketh wrong of right.

Then midst my pity for their lost delight,

Yet more with barren longing I grew weak,

Yet more I mourned that I had none to seek.

THE HALL AND THE WOOD

‘Twas in the water-dwindling tide

When July days were done,

Sir Rafe of Greenhowes ‘gan to ride

In the earliest of the sun.

He left the white-walled burg behind,

He rode amidst the wheat.

The westland-gotten wind blew kind

Across the acres sweet.

Then rose his heart and cleared his brow,

And slow he rode the way:

“As then it was, so is it now,

Not all hath worn away.”

So came he to the long green lane

That leadeth to the ford,

And saw the sickle by the wain

Shine bright as any sword.

The brown carles stayed ‘twixt draught and draught,

And murmuring, stood aloof,

But one spake out when he had laughed:

“God bless the Green-wood Roof!”

Then o’er the ford and up he fared:

And lo the happy hills!

And the mountain-dale by summer cleared,

That oft the winter fills.

Then forth he rode by Peter’s gate,

And smiled and said aloud:

“No more a day doth the Prior wait;

White stands the tower and proud.”

There leaned a knight on the gateway side

In armour white and wan,

And after the heels of the horse he cried,

“God keep the hunted man!”

Then quoth Sir Rafe, “Amen, amen!”

For he deemed the word was good;

But never a while he lingered then

Till he reached the Nether Wood.

He rode by ash, he rode by oak,

He rode the thicket round,

And heard no woodman strike a stroke,

No wandering wife he found.

He rode the wet, he rode the dry,

He rode the grassy glade:

At Wood-end yet the sun was high,

And his heart was unafraid.

There on the bent his rein he drew,

And looked o’er field and fold,

O’er all the merry meads he knew

Beneath the mountains old.

He gazed across to the good Green Howe

As he smelt the sun-warmed sward;

Then his face grew pale from chin to brow,

And he cried, “God save the sword!”

For there beyond the winding way,

Above the orchards green,

Stood up the ancient gables grey

With ne’er a roof between.

His naked blade in hand he had,

O’er rough and smooth he rode,

Till he stood where once his heart was glad

Amidst his old abode.

Across the hearth a tie-beam lay

Unmoved a weary while.

The flame that clomb the ashlar grey

Had burned it red as tile.

The sparrows bickering on the floor

Fled at his entering in;

The swift flew past the empty door

His winged meat to win.

Red apples from the tall old tree

O’er the wall’s rent were shed.

Thence oft, a little lad, would he

Look down upon the lead.

There turned the cheeping chaffinch now

And feared no birding child;

Through the shot-window thrust a bough

Of garden-rose run wild.

He looked to right, he looked to left,

And down to the cold grey hearth,

Where lay an axe with half burned heft

Amidst the ashen dearth.

He caught it up and cast it wide

Against the gable wall;

Then to the daïs did he stride,

O’er beam and bench and all.

Amidst there yet the high-seat stood,

Where erst his sires had sat;

And the mighty board of oaken wood,

The fire had stayed thereat.

Then through the red wrath of his eyne

He saw a sheathed sword,

Laid thwart that wasted field of wine,

Amidmost of the board.

And by the hilts a slug-horn lay,

And therebeside a scroll,

He caught it up and turned away

From the lea-land of the bowl.

Then with the sobbing grief he strove,

For he saw his name thereon;

And the heart within his breast uphove

As the pen’s tale now he won.

“O Rafe, my love of long ago!

Draw forth thy father’s blade,

And blow the horn for friend and foe,

And the good green-wood to aid!”

He turned and took the slug-horn up,

And set it to his mouth,

And o’er that meadow of the cup

Blew east and west and south.

He drew the sword from out the sheath

And shook the fallow brand;

And there a while with bated breath,

And hearkening ear did stand.

Him-seemed the horn’s voice he might hear—

Or the wind that blew o’er all.

Him-seemed that footsteps drew anear—

Or the boughs shook round the hall.

Him-seemed he heard a voice he knew—

Or a dream of while agone.

Him-seemed bright raiment towards him drew—

Or bright the sun-set shone.

She stood before him face to face,

With the sun-beam thwart her hand,

As on the gold of the Holy Place

The painted angels stand.

With many a kiss she closed his eyes;

She kissed him cheek and chin:

E’en so in the painted Paradise

Are Earth’s folk welcomed in.

There in the door the green-coats stood,

O’er the bows went up the cry,

“O welcome, Rafe, to the free green-wood,

With us to live and die.”

It was bill and bow by the high-seat stood,

And they cried above the bows,

“Now welcome, Rafe, to the good green-wood,

And welcome Kate the Rose!”

White, white in the moon is the woodland plash,

White is the woodland glade,

Forth wend those twain, from oak to ash,

With light hearts unafraid.

The summer moon high o’er the hill,

All silver-white is she,

And Sir Rafe’s good men with bow and bill,

They go by two and three.

In the fair green-wood where lurks no fear,

Where the King’s writ runneth not,

There dwell they, friends and fellows dear,

While summer days are hot.

And when the leaf from the oak-tree falls,

And winds blow rough and strong,

With the carles of the woodland thorps and halls

They dwell, and fear no wrong.

And there the merry yule they make,

And see the winter wane,

And fain are they for true-love’s sake,

And the folk thereby are fain.

For the ploughing carle and the straying herd

Flee never for Sir Rafe:

No barefoot maiden wends afeard,

And she deems the thicket safe.

But sore adread do the chapmen ride;

Wide round the wood they go;

And the judge and the sergeants wander wide,

Lest they plead before the bow.

Well learned and wise is Sir Rafe’s good sword,

And straight the arrows fly,

And they find the coat of many a lord,

And the crest that rideth high.

THE DAY OF DAYS

Each eve earth falleth down the dark,

As though its hope were o’er;

Yet lurks the sun when day is done

Behind to-morrow’s door.

Grey grows the dawn while men-folk sleep,

Unseen spreads on the light,

Till the thrush sings to the coloured things,

And earth forgets the night.

No otherwise wends on our Hope:

E’en as a tale that’s told

Are fair lives lost, and all the cost

Of wise and true and bold.

We’ve toiled and failed; we spake the word;

None hearkened; dumb we lie;

Our Hope is dead, the seed we spread

Fell o’er the earth to die.

What’s this? For joy our hearts stand still,

And life is loved and dear,

The lost and found the Cause hath crowned,

The Day of Days is here.

TO THE MUSE OF THE NORTH

O muse that swayest the sad Northern Song,

Thy right hand full of smiting and of wrong,

Thy left hand holding pity; and thy breast

Heaving with hope of that so certain rest:

Thou, with the grey eyes kind and unafraid,

The soft lips trembling not, though they have said

The doom of the World and those that dwell therein.

The lips that smile not though thy children win

The fated Love that draws the fated Death.

O, borne adown the fresh stream of thy breath,

Let some word reach my ears and touch my heart,

That, if it may be, I may have a part

In that great sorrow of thy children dead

That vexed the brow, and bowed adown the head,

Whitened the hair, made life a wondrous dream,

And death the murmur of a restful stream,

But left no stain upon those souls of thine

Whose greatness through the tangled world doth shine.

O Mother, and Love and Sister all in one,

Come thou; for sure I am enough alone

That thou thine arms about my heart shouldst throw,

And wrap me in the grief of long ago.

OF THE THREE SEEKERS

There met three knights on the woodland,

And the first was clad in silk array:

The second was dight in iron and steel,

But the third was rags from head to heel.

“Lo, now is the year and the day come round

When we must tell what we have found.”

The first said: “I have found a king

Who grudgeth no gift of anything.”

The second said: “I have found a knight

Who hath never turned his back in fight.”

But the third said: “I have found a love

That Time and the World shall never move.”

Whither away to win good cheer?

“With me,” said the first, “for my king is near.”

So to the King they went their ways;

But there was a change of times and days.

“What men are ye,” the great King said,

“That ye should eat my children’s bread?

My waste has fed full many a store,

And mocking and grudge have I gained therefore.

Whatever waneth as days wax old.

Full worthy to win are goods and gold.”

Whither away to win good cheer?

“With me,” said the second, “my knight is near.

So to the knight they went their ways,

But there was a change of times and days.

He dwelt in castle sure and strong,

For fear lest aught should do him wrong.

Guards by gate and hall there were,