Quarles

I plant a tree whose leafThe yew-tree leaf will suit:But when its shade is o'er you laid,Turn round and pluck the fruit.Now reach my harp from off the wallWhere shines the sun aslant;The sun may shine and we be cold!O hearken, loving hearts and bold,Unto my wild romaunt.Margret, Margret.

Sitteth the fair ladyeClose to the river sideWhich runneth on with a merry toneHer merry thoughts to guide:It runneth through the trees,It runneth by the hill,Nathless the lady's thoughts have foundA way more pleasant stillMargret, Margret.

The night is in her hairAnd giveth shade to shade,And the pale moonlight on her forehead whiteLike a spirit's hand is laid;Her lips part with a smileInstead of speakings done:I ween, she thinketh of a voice,Albeit uttering none.Margret, Margret.

All little birds do sitWith heads beneath their wings:Nature doth seem in a mystic dream,Absorbed from her living things:That dream by that ladyeIs certes unpartook,For she looketh to the high cold starsWith a tender human lookMargret, Margret.

The lady's shadow liesUpon the running river;It lieth no less in its quietness,For that which resteth never:Most like a trusting heartUpon a passing faith,Or as upon the course of lifeThe steadfast doom of death.Margret, Margret.

The lady doth not move,The lady doth not dream,Yet she seeth her shade no longer laidIn rest upon the stream:It shaketh without wind,It parteth from the tide,It standeth upright in the cleft moonlight,It sitteth at her side.Margret, Margret.

Look in its face, ladye,And keep thee from thy swound;With a spirit bold thy pulses holdAnd hear its voice's sound:For so will sound thy voiceWhen thy face is to the wall,And such will be thy face, ladye,When the maidens work thy pall.Margret, Margret.

"Am I not like to thee?"The voice was calm and low,And between each word you might have heardThe silent forests grow;"The like may sway the like;"By which mysterious lawMine eyes from thine and my lips from thineThe light and breath may draw.Margret, Margret.

"My lips do need thy breath,My lips do need thy smile,And my pallid eyne, that light in thineWhich met the stars erewhile:Yet go with light and lifeIf that thou lovest oneIn all the earth who loveth theeAs truly as the sun,Margret, Margret."

Her cheek had waxed whiteLike cloud at fall of snow;Then like to one at set of sun,It waxed red also;For love's name maketh boldAs if the loved were near:And then she sighed the deep long sighWhich cometh after fear.Margret, Margret.

"Now, sooth, I fear thee not--Shall never fear thee now!"(And a noble sight was the sudden lightWhich lit her lifted brow.)"Can earth be dry of streams,Or hearts of love?" she said;"Who doubteth love, can know not love:He is already dead."Margret, Margret.

"I have" ... and here her lipsSome word in pause did keep,And gave the while a quiet smileAs if they paused in sleep,--"I have ... a brother dear,A knight of knightly fame!I broidered him a knightly scarfWith letters of my nameMargret, Margret.

"I fed his grey goshawk,I kissed his fierce bloodhound,I sate at home when he might comeAnd caught his horn's far sound:I sang him hunter's songs,I poured him the red wine,He looked across the cup and said,I love thee, sister mine."Margret, Margret.

IT trembled on the grassWith a low, shadowy laughter;The sounding river which rolled, for everStood dumb and stagnant after:"Brave knight thy brother is!But better loveth heThy chaliced wine than thy chaunted song,And better both than thee,Margret, Margret."

The lady did not heedThe river's silence whileHer own thoughts still ran at their will,And calm was still her smile."My little sister wearsThe look our mother wore:I smooth her locks with a golden comb,I bless her evermore."Margret, Margret.

"I gave her my first birdWhen first my voice it knew;I made her share my posies rareAnd told her where they grew:I taught her God's dear nameWith prayer and praise to tell,She looked from heaven into my faceAnd said, I love thee well."Margret, Margret.

IT trembled on the grassWith a low, shadowy laughter;You could see each bird as it woke and staredThrough the shrivelled foliage after."Fair child thy sister is!But better loveth sheThy golden comb than thy gathered flowers,And better both than thee,Margret, Margret."

Thy lady did not heedThe withering on the bough;Still calm her smile albeit the whileA little pale her brow:"I have a father old,The lord of ancient halls;An hundred friends are in his courtYet only me he calls.Margret, Margret.

"An hundred knights are in his courtYet read I by his knee;And when forth they go to the tourney-showI rise not up to see:'T is a weary book to read,My tryst's at set of sun,But loving and dear beneath the starsIs his blessing when I've done."Margret, Margret.

IT trembled on the grassWith a low, shadowy laughter;And moon and star though bright and farDid shrink and darken after."High lord thy father is!But better loveth heHis ancient halls than his hundred friends,His ancient halls, than thee,Margret, Margret."

The lady did not heedThat the far stars did fail;Still calm her smile, albeit the while ...Nay, but she is not pale!"I have more than a friendAcross the mountains dim:No other's voice is soft to me,Unless it nameth him."Margret, Margret.

"Though louder beats my heart,I know his tread again,And his fair plume aye, unless turned away,For the tears do blind me then:We brake no gold, a signOf stronger faith to be,But I wear his last look in my soul,Which said, I love but thee!"Margret, Margret.

IT trembled on the grassWith a low, shadowy laughter;And the wind did toll, as a passing soulWere sped by church-bell after;And shadows, 'stead of light,Fell from the stars above,In flakes of darkness on her faceStill bright with trusting love.Margret, Margret.

"He loved but only thee!That love is transient too.The wild hawk's bill doth dabble stillI' the mouth that vowed thee true:Will he open his dull eyesWhen tears fall on his brow?Behold, the death-worm to his heartIs a nearer thing than thou,Margret, Margret."

Her face was on the ground--None saw the agony;But the men at sea did that night agreeThey heard a drowning cry:And when the morning brake,Fast rolled the river's tide,With the green trees waving overheadAnd a white corse laid beside.Margret, Margret.

A knight's bloodhound and heThe funeral watch did keep;With a thought o' the chase he stroked its faceAs it howled to see him weep.A fair child kissed the dead,But shrank before its cold.And alone yet proudly in his hallDid stand a baron old.Margret, Margret.

Hang up my harp again!I have no voice for song.Not song but wail, and mourners pale,Not bards, to love belong.O failing human love!O light, by darkness known!O false, the while thou treadest earth!O deaf beneath the stone!Margret, Margret.