MARIE DE FRANCE
Of you, brave poetess, we've nothing more
Than name and songs, and yet, I'm sure of you—
A lonely, gallant spirit who all through
A wandering life in costly silence bore
With music and with laughter broidered o'er.
Her heart as that sad lady of the tale
Wrapped the crushed body of her nightingale
In silk close-stitched with gules and vert and or.
And though you've left us many a dainty lay
Fresh as the branch of honeysuckle tossed
By faithful Tristram on the dusty way
To warn Isolda he whom she loved most
Was close at hand; in this our dusty day
Your keen and fragrant spirit's needed most.
Than name and songs, and yet, I'm sure of you—
A lonely, gallant spirit who all through
A wandering life in costly silence bore
With music and with laughter broidered o'er.
Her heart as that sad lady of the tale
Wrapped the crushed body of her nightingale
In silk close-stitched with gules and vert and or.
And though you've left us many a dainty lay
Fresh as the branch of honeysuckle tossed
By faithful Tristram on the dusty way
To warn Isolda he whom she loved most
Was close at hand; in this our dusty day
Your keen and fragrant spirit's needed most.
AN OLD CAMEO
Within an oval of unshaded blue
The figure of a dancing nymph is seen
Moving with measured step and air serene
In some enthralling dance that wood-folk knew
In days when skies were of a softer hue
And forests wore a deeper, richer green
Than now. And nevermore such shape and mien
Beneath the sun shall happy mortals view.
Of less unearthly grace the forms appear
The keen frost carves from crystal. We may bless
The wind of time that froze this airy sprite
To immobility and kept her here
With all her fragile, glancing loveliness
In these uncomely years for our delight.
The figure of a dancing nymph is seen
Moving with measured step and air serene
In some enthralling dance that wood-folk knew
In days when skies were of a softer hue
And forests wore a deeper, richer green
Than now. And nevermore such shape and mien
Beneath the sun shall happy mortals view.
Of less unearthly grace the forms appear
The keen frost carves from crystal. We may bless
The wind of time that froze this airy sprite
To immobility and kept her here
With all her fragile, glancing loveliness
In these uncomely years for our delight.
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