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.