Poems By The Way & Love Is Enough Part 39

THE EMPRESS

Behold, behold, how little I may move!

Think in thy heart how terrible is Love, O thou who know'st my soul as G.o.d above-- --Draw me through dreams unto the end of day!

_The stage for the play in another part of the street, and the people thronging all about_.

GILES

Here, Joan, this is so good a place 'Tis worth the scramble and the race!

There is the Empress just sat down, Her white hands on her golden gown, While yet the Emperor stands to hear The welcome of the bald-head Mayor Unto the show; and you shall see The player-folk come in presently.

The king of whom is e'en that one, Who wandering but a while agone Stumbled upon our harvest-home That August when you might not come.

Betwixt the stubble and the gra.s.s Great mirth indeed he brought to pa.s.s.

But liefer were I to have seen Your nimble feet tread down the green In threesome dance to pipe and fife.

JOAN

Thou art a dear thing to my life, And nought good have I far to seek-- But hearken! for the Mayor will speak.

THE MAYOR

Since your grace bids me speak without stint or sparing A thing little splendid I pray you to see: Early is the day yet, for we near the dawning Drew on chains dear-bought, and gowns done with gold; So may ye high ones hearken an hour A tale that our hearts hold worthy and good, Of Pharamond the Freed, who, a king feared and honoured, Fled away to find love from his crown and his folk.

E'en as I tell of it somewhat I tremble Lest we, fearful of treason to the love that fulfils you, Should seem to make little of the love that ye give us, Of your lives full of glory, of the deeds that your lifetime Shall gleam with for ever when we are forgotten.

Forgive it for the greatness of that Love who compels us.-- Hark! in the minster-tower minish the joy-bells, And all men are hushed now these marvels to hear.

THE EMPEROR (_to the MAYOR_)

We thank your love, that sees our love indeed Toward you, toward Love, toward life of toil and need: We shall not falter though your poet sings Of all defeat, strewing the crowns of kings About the th.o.r.n.y ways where Love doth wend, Because we know us faithful to the end Toward you, toward Love, toward life of war and deed, And well we deem your tale shall help our need.

(_To the EMPRESS_)

So many hours to pa.s.s before the sun Shall blush ere sleeping, and the day be done!

How thinkest thou, my sweet, shall such a tale For lengthening or for shortening them avail?

THE EMPRESS

Nay, dreamland has no clocks the wise ones say, And while our hands move at the break of day We dream of years: and I am dreaming still And need no change my cup of joy to fill: Let them say on, and I shall hear thy voice Telling the tale, and in its love rejoice.

THE MUSIC

(As the singers enter and stand before the curtain, the player-king and player-maiden in the midst.)

_LOVE IS ENOUGH: have no thought for to-morrow If ye lie down this even in rest from your pain, Ye who have paid for your bliss with great sorrow: For as it was once so it shall be again.

Ye shall cry out for death as ye stretch forth in vain.

Feeble hands to the hands that would help but they may not, Cry out to deaf ears that would hear if they could; Till again shall the change come, and words your lips say not Your hearts make all plain in the best wise they would And the world ye thought waning is glorious and good:

And no morning now mocks you and no nightfall is weary, The plains are not empty of song and of deed: The sea strayeth not, nor the mountains are dreary; The wind is not helpless for any man's need, Nor falleth the rain but for thistle and weed.

O surely this morning all sorrow is hidden, All battle is hushed for this even at least; And no one this noontide may hunger, unbidden To the flowers and the singing and the joy of your feast Where silent ye sit midst the world's tale increased.

Lo, the lovers unloved that draw nigh for your blessing!

For your tale makes the dreaming whereby yet they live The dreams of the day with their hopes of redressing, The dreams of the night with the kisses they give, The dreams of the dawn wherein death and hope strive.

Ah, what shall we say then, but that earth threatened often Shall live on for ever that such things may be, That the dry seed shall quicken, the hard earth shall soften, And the spring-bearing birds flutter north o'er the sea, That earth's garden may bloom round my love's feet and me?_

THE EMPEROR

Lo you, my sweet, fair folk are one and all And with good grace their broidered robes do fall, And sweet they sing indeed: but he, the King, Look but a little how his fingers cling To her's, his love that shall be in the play-- His love that hath been surely ere to-day: And see, her wide soft eyes cast down at whiles Are opened not to note the people's smiles But her love's lips, and dreamily they stare As though they sought the happy country, where They two shall be alone, and the world dead.

THE EMPRESS

Most faithful eyes indeed look from the head The sun has burnt, and wind and rain has beat, Well may he find her slim brown fingers sweet.

And he--methinks he trembles, lest he find That song of his not wholly to her mind.

Note how his grey eyes look askance to see Her bosom heaving with the melody His heart loves well: rough with the wind and rain His cheek is, hollow with some ancient pain; The sun has burned and blanched his crispy hair, And over him hath swept a world of care And left him careless, rugged, and her own; Still fresh desired, still strange and new, though known.

THE EMPEROR

His eyes seem dreaming of the mysteries Deep in the depths of her familiar eyes, Tormenting and alluring; does he dream, As I ofttime this morn, how they would seem Loved but unloving?--Nay the world's too sweet That we the ghost of such a pain should meet-- Behold, she goes, and he too, turning round, Remembers that his love must yet be found, That he is King and loveless in this story Wrought long ago for some dead poet's glory.

[_Exeunt players behind the curtain_.

_Enter before the curtain LOVE crowned as a King_.

LOVE

All hail, my servants! tremble ye, my foes!

A hope for these I have, a fear for those Hid in this tale of Pharamond the Freed.

To-day, my Faithful, nought shall be your need Of tears compa.s.sionate:--although full oft The crown of love laid on my bosom soft Be woven of bitter death and deathless fame, Bethorned with woe, and fruited thick with shame.

--This for the mighty of my courts I keep, Lest through the world there should be none to weep Except for sordid loss; and not to gain But satiate pleasure making mock of pain.

--Yea, in the heaven from whence my dreams go forth Are stored the signs that make the world of worth: There is the wavering wall of mighty Troy About my Helen's hope and Paris' joy: There lying neath the fresh dyed mulberry-tree The sword and cloth of Pyramus I see: There is the number of the joyless days Wherein Medea won no love nor praise: There is the sand my Ariadne pressed; The footprints of the feet that knew no rest While o'er the sea forth went the fatal sign: The asp of Egypt, the Numidian wine, My Sigurd's sword, my Brynhild's fiery bed, The tale of years of Gudrun's drearihead, And Tristram's glaive, and Iseult's shriek are here, And cloister-gown of joyless Guenevere.

Save you, my Faithful! how your loving eyes Grow soft and gleam with all these memories!

But on this day my crown is not of death: My fire-tipped arrows, and my kindling breath Are all the weapons I shall need to-day.