Читать книгу A Selection from the Poems of William Morris - William Morris - Страница 9

This castle where I dwell, it stands A long way off from Christian lands, A long way off my lady's hands, A long way off the aspen trees, And murmur of the lime-tree bees. But down the Valley of the Rose My lady often hawking goes, Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind, Leaning towards the western wind, Because it bringeth to her mind Sad whisperings of happy times, The face of him who sings these rhymes. King Guilbert rides beside her there, Bends low and calls her very fair, And strives, by pulling down his hair, To hide from my dear lady's ken The grisly gash I gave him, when I cut him down at Camelot; However he strives, he hides it not, That tourney will not be forgot, Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot, Whatever he says she answers not. Now tell me, you that are in love, From the king's son to the wood-dove, Which is the better, he or I? For this king means that I should die In this lone Pagan castle, where The flowers droop in the bad air On the September evening. Look, now I take mine ease and sing, Counting as but a little thing The foolish spite of a bad king. For these vile things that hem me in, These Pagan beasts who live in sin, The sickly flowers pale and wan, The grim blue-bearded castellan, The stanchions half worn-out with rust, Whereto their banner vile they trust— Why, all these things I hold them just Like dragons in a missal book, Wherein, whenever we may look, We see no horror, yea, delight We have, the colours are so bright; Likewise we note the specks of white, And the great plates of burnish'd gold. Just so this Pagan castle old, And everything I can see there, Sick-pining in the marshland air, I note; I will go over now, Like one who paints with knitted brow, The flowers and all things one by one, From the snail on the wall to the setting sun. Four great walls, and a little one That leads down to the barbican, Which walls with many spears they man, When news comes to the castellan Of Launcelot being in the land. And as I sit here, close at hand Four spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand, The castellan with a long wand Cuts down their leaves as he goes by, Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye, And fingers twisted in his beard— Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard? I have a hope makes me afeard: It cannot be, but if some dream Just for a minute made me deem I saw among the flowers there My lady's face with long red hair, Pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come, As I was wont to see her some Fading September afternoon, And kiss me, saying nothing, soon To leave me by myself again; Could I get this by longing: vain! The castellan is gone: I see On one broad yellow flower a bee Drunk with much honey— Christ! again, Some distant knight's voice brings me pain, I thought I had forgot to feel, I never heard the blissful steel These ten years past; year after year, Through all my hopeless sojourn here, No Christian pennon has been near; Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws on Over the marches, battle won, Knights' shouts, and axes hammering, Yea, quicker now the dint and ring Of flying hoofs; ah, castellan, When they come back count man for man, Say whom you miss.