CW 21, xxv-xxx
[xxv] I went through many lands and found no rest
When I had left you and this castle here,
Nor found I any counsel what was best
But went about all dizzied for a year.
At last it chanced on a September day
When all the sleeping sky was one blue grey,
I rode unhappily through a green way,
Neither did any come for me to fight or fear;
My pennon no wind shook, my mail-hood lay aback,
I looked down on my breast and saw my bearing there—
Gold dragons on green round—my bridle-reins were slack,
I held within my mouth locks of my long lank hair,
But as I rode faint singing came to me
From the right hand, I thought that I might be
The voice of damozels at a tourney.
So toward that voice I went sideways till I came where
Many pavilions on an open lawn
With gold and blue and scarlet scared the birds.
My heart shrunk back all sickened at the dawn
Of arms, embroidery, and clear sung words,
Nevertheless I set my lips together
Till the blood came, not felt—as in hot weather
The archer does not feel the strain of leather
When as he marches towards the foe his coat he girds.
Mad as I was I stopped and thought, There now
I knew that I had seen that place before,
[xxvvi] And those pavilions—why 'twas even so
Last year: then some fear pierced to my heart’s core;
I entered through that same close rose-fence
And went towards the great pavilion whence
Some fear or horror struck upon my sense—
O pity me, I pray you, this is what I saw.
A silken carpet lay upon the grass
And on a silken bed lay Eleanore:
I was in time to see the last breath pass
From her half-opened lips; besides I saw
Sitting along the bed on the further side
Ten maidens fairly robed and thus they cried,
"He comes Sir John to claim his doomed bride."
Thereat they turned away, dropped their eyes toward the floor,
Whereat I was abashed and thought what I could do;
I closed her wide [eyes] first, lifted from off the ground
Her heavy golden hair; her arms were stretched straight so,
Crosswise I laid them downwards, yet there came no sound,
So when I saw she moved not her head
Nor oped her eyes nor moved her hands, I said
Quite softly to myself, Then she is dead.
And yet I neither screamed nor fell down in a swound
But only stood still; for a while I ween
I knew not where I was but felt a globe
Of whirling black with spots of red & green
Shrink and expand before me till the robe
Of one of those poor downcast maidens there
I saw fall on her head about her hair,
Who fainted had with grief lay on the bier.
When she was lifted up I saw no deep green there--
No robe of Eleanore but only deep green meads,
Between the hazel hedge the gleaming of gold sheaves,
And, dream within a dream, a maiden crowned with weeds
Standing between two trees beneath the shivering leaves--
[xxvii] Yea day by day I used to go and gaze
In the old passed time, the sweet old days,
I used to draw a maiden from the haze
For my delight, to stand beneath the aspen leaves;
I could see all her throat because her chin was raised,
And I could see the lashes of her eyes
Laid downward on her cheek, and as I gazed
With beating heart could see her bosom rise
Heaving and falling like a quiet sea--
Whose robes of green and white and purple be
Just as hers were, each side of her a tree
Trembled with strange delight to feel her hands, the flies
Along the bridges of her outstretched arms
Marched humming to the city of her face,
By the Cathedral of her eyes sang psalms,
Held her white forehead as a hallowed place
For burying the dead things of the mind.
With undropped lids I gazed till I was blind
Then dropped my head and wept because the wind,
As I knew all too well, was making clear that space.
That was at sunset time: all the night long
Thereafter very sullen would I lie
Till the next noon unless the wind was strong--
The wind was ever a kind friend to me.
But the next day at noon I used to lean
Against an aspen, get a sense of green
To my heart through my eyes and soon I ween
Came forth my dream of dreams each hand laid on a tree.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I used to think it was a sort of right
That I should get each day some happiness . . .
O God it was not fair, no part at all
Was left of any day, and day by day
The hours lengthen and it doth befall
[xxviii]I sleep not, half forgetful in a way--
I sleep one hour only of the night.
At dawn the moon fades and my strained sight
Drops from the empty helm so strange in the grey light
I try to shout, Lord help! but nought at all can say.
Ah, while I stood in that pavilion
And saw the pale vexed maidens arm in arm,
And saw the roof above with starts thereon,
I reeled and fell down straight from memory and strange calm—
Because I saw myself as I did say
Sitting upon my bed waiting for day
My blue enameled helm touched by the grey
Not showing that blue now, while from the neighboring elm
The cocks send out that strange unearthly sound
Cock crow at dawn, dawn slow in coming round,
So slow and very cold in coming round—
Perhaps Doomsday is past and it will not come now—
In those cold dawns I pray thee, Eleanore,
Between the roses drained of colour, come no more
With fall of moist white feet upon the marble floor-
Eleanore I pray thee sit not there so calm . . . .
Likewise I saw myself in the hot noon
Sitting along upon a bank of sand,
A few men come there now, yet in the moon
The witches gather there from many a land,
Yet I sat there alone and let the sun
Beat on my helmed head feeling the great drops run
Over my cheeks like tears and dropping one by one
On the steel plates of my knees or else upon my hand.
And this I did because I feared the shade,
I feared to see a ghost clad in deep green
In the likeness of a very beauteous maid
[xxix] But yet so pale, so pale, with no joy to be seen,
I fear to see her cover her thin face
With her thin hands, then weeping in that place
To kneel in last year’s leaves to hide her face.
For if I were to see only her stately mien
There would no longer be a chance to me
Of dying but for ever I should live
Walk slowly in the sun . . .
O Eleanore who liest there alone,
Ah so alone, the blue blue roof above,
I pray thee let me be, and make low moan
My lips on your lips, for I am in love--
For what thing love I better than thine eyes?
What thing, O Love, except perhaps those wise
Kind lips, the little hand that tries
By witching trembling grip to say it is in love.
Dead is she then—behold I pass my lips
Over her cold face moaning, like a bee
Who when the choristers are chaunting, slips
Along the stained glass in the clerestory
Brushing the face of Christ at Bethlehem;
I kissed her o’er and o’er right from the bodice hem
Up to the golden locks yea sunk my lips in them—
I never knew till now how sweet a kiss could be.
Alas God would not let me stay there long:
One of those maidens rising from her place
Came to me and on my shoulder laid a strong
Indignant grasp, and when I saw her face
I knew that I must go, so piteously
I moved to the bier-foot: she to me
Turned full her face like a fierce dog, then she
Passed by the feet in going to her place—
[xxx] Her long red raiment brushed, as she went past,
The silk from off the feet of Eleanore,
I doubted, shivered much, but then at last
Turned weeping back to my own love once more,
I bent down till my wet cheek touched her foot,
Took off the gold shoe. I felt a sharp pain shoot
Through all my frame, go down to the heart’s root.
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