And only myself to eat. If this be love,
May I wear blinkers always, or better yet,
Go blindfold through the perils of this world,
Which I have always liked, and so, God help me,
Be led to safety like a hooded horse
Through sparks and unseen fire. If this be love,
May I grow merry and old and amiable
On hate. I’ll fix on someone who admires me,
And sting him, and then hate him all my days.
‘Gawaine, Brangwaine,’—what else is that than song?
If I were a musician, and had leisure,
I’d surely some day make a tune of it.
‘Brangwaine, Gawaine.’” He frowned upon events,
And sighed again that men were not alike.
“‘Gawaine, Brangwaine,’” Brangwaine was fair to see,
And life, while he could sing, was not very long,
And woe not his annoyed him.
May I wear blinkers always, or better yet,
Go blindfold through the perils of this world,
Which I have always liked, and so, God help me,
Be led to safety like a hooded horse
Through sparks and unseen fire. If this be love,
May I grow merry and old and amiable
On hate. I’ll fix on someone who admires me,
And sting him, and then hate him all my days.
‘Gawaine, Brangwaine,’—what else is that than song?
If I were a musician, and had leisure,
I’d surely some day make a tune of it.
‘Brangwaine, Gawaine.’” He frowned upon events,
And sighed again that men were not alike.
“‘Gawaine, Brangwaine,’” Brangwaine was fair to see,
And life, while he could sing, was not very long,
And woe not his annoyed him.
Gawaine went
With all his men, and Brangwaine, the next day;
And Tristram, like a statue that was moving,
Still haunted Joyous Gard, where Gouvernail,
Disconsolate, and half scared out of sorrow,
Followed and feared, and waited for a sound
With all his men, and Brangwaine, the next day;
And Tristram, like a statue that was moving,
Still haunted Joyous Gard, where Gouvernail,
Disconsolate, and half scared out of sorrow,
Followed and feared, and waited for a sound
[ 172 ]
