Old Love

You must be very old, Sir Giles,I said; he said: Yea, very old!Whereat the mournfullest of smilesCreased his dry skin with many a fold.

They hammer'd out my basnet pointInto a round salade, he said,The basnet being quite out of joint,Natheless the salade rasps my head.

He gazed at the great fire awhile:And you are getting old, Sir John;(He said this with that cunning smileThat was most sad) we both wear on;

Knights come to court and look at me,With eyebrows up; except my lord,And my dear lady, none I seeThat know the ways of my old sword.

(My lady! at that word no pangStopp'd all my blood). But tell me, John,Is it quite true that Pagans hangSo thick about the east, that on

The eastern sea no Venice flagCan fly unpaid for? True, I said,And in such way the miscreants dragChrist's cross upon the ground, I dread

That Constantine must fall this year.Within my heart, these things are small;This is not small, that things outwearI thought were made for ever, yea, all,

All things go soon or late, I said.I saw the duke in court next day;Just as before, his grand great headAbove his gold robes dreaming lay,

Only his face was paler; thereI saw his duchess sit by him;And she, she was changed more; her hairBefore my eyes that used to swim,

And make me dizzy with great blissOnce, when I used to watch her sit,Her hair is bright still, yet it isAs though some dust were thrown on it.

Her eyes are shallower, as thoughSome grey glass were behind; her browAnd cheeks the straining bones show through,Are not so good for kissing now.

Her lips are drier now she isA great duke's wife these many years,They will not shudder with a kissAs once they did, being moist with tears.

Also her hands have lost that wayOf clinging that they used to have;They look'd quite easy, as they layUpon the silken cushions brave

With broidery of the apples greenMy Lord Duke bears upon his shield.Her face, alas! that I have seenLook fresher than an April field,

This is all gone now; gone alsoHer tender walking; when she walksShe is most queenly I well know,And she is fair still. As the stalks

Of faded summer-lilies are,So is she grown now unto meThis spring-time, when the flowers starThe meadows, birds sing wonderfully.

I warrant once she used to clingAbout his neck, and kiss'd him so,And then his coming step would ringJoy-bells for her; some time ago.

Ah! sometimes like an idle dreamThat hinders true life overmuch,Sometimes like a lost heaven, these seem.This love is not so hard to smutch.