Droit du Seigneur
The Aspens shiver by the osier bed,
The waters ripple in September's sun
Among the rushes, where I sit and dream
My basket empty and my work undone.
I watch the spirals of blue smoke arise
Above the green of oak and chestnut tree
Only one week of wistful weariness
Before as custom bids, I go to thee.
But, wilt thou take thy right? My brother's wife
Went to the castle on her wedding-day,
And when thou saw'st her shivering dissent
Didst thou not say in kindness, "Go thy way,
"Untouched by me, even as thou hast come,
Save in the way of gifts; take this and this."
And she, poor little fool, rejoined her mate,
Unharmed, unhonoured, even by a kiss.
Last week I saw her at her cottage door
Nursing her clumsy child; no wistful sigh
For what her peasant arms might yet have held,
A child of thine,—broke her serenity.
Ah, if I knew how thou wilt deal with me.
Who knows? who knows? They tell me I am fair,
And any beauty that I may possess
Have I not kept it for thy sake with care?
To guard a pallor that might blush for thee,
Shading the sunrays from this face of mine,
Smoothing my hands with milk from elder-flowers
Lest the rough skin should jar the silk of thine.
Ah, how I loved thee, even as a child
Watching thee ride across the village square,
The curls blown backwards from thy vivid face
Thy pennons lifted on the summer air.
How I have envied brides who passed thy gates,
And when I heard the village gossips say
Thou wert not as thy fathers; oft refused
To claim thy privilege, I turned away
So glad and yet so sad,—it well may be
They will not notice me, those eyes of thine;
Yet surely love will find some soft appeal
To draw their gaze to me, thy lips to mine.
My cousin loves me; in his kindly eyes
Lies the clear promise of a calm content.
I, wedding him, ensure his happiness
As thou ensurest mine, shouldst thou consent.
Ah, if thou shouldst be kind and set thy seal
On me and mine for ever. Women know
The secret ways of love and all its lore
If,—Ah, dear God in Heaven, if this were so!
My firstborn should be thine, then all my life
Will, and must, keep the memory of thee.
Even as thou art printed on my heart,
So on my being must thy impress be.
No second lover and no second child
Efface the imprint of the first who came,
And on the golden sands of youth inscribed
Lightly, but so indelibly, his name.
Many a custom, many an old abuse
Thy people cherish still, unknown to thee;
My cousin whispers me among the reeds,
"What has the priest to do with thee and me?
"Let us forestall our marriage, thus thy child
Will be thy husband's, not a lawless thing
Born of injustice." Ah, how blind men are,
How strange their words of careless kindness ring.
It is the sweetest justice or our lives
That once, ere settling to our lifelong task
Of serving boors and raising sons to them
One golden moment, too divine to ask
In our most daring prayers, is flung to us
By our time honoured custom's strange decree,
One perfect hour of radiant romance
Is lent to us; will it be lent to me?
Rarely men understand our way of love;
How that to women in their wedding hours
Lover and priest and king are blent in one,
Hence the awed worship of these hearts of ours.
At times love for a little lifts the veil
And men and women see each other's heart,
But swiftly passion comes, obscuring all,
And thus the nearing souls are swept apart.
To us love is a sacred rite; to men
Custom, perhaps affection, or desire.
Before we hold our lovers in our arms
They are too fiercely amorous to inquire.
And after too indifferent; thus our souls
Remain an unread chapter to the end,
And those whose very life is blent with ours
Cannot be called with justice even friend.
Ah me, I dream and dream: my basket lies
Unfilled beside me, while the aspens part
Their trembling leaves, and show the castle walls
That rest my eyes and draw my anxious heart,
Because they hold its treasure. Ah, Seigneur,
So loved, so longed for, passing strange it seems
That I shall speak to thee, to whom I speak
Daily in thought, and nightly through my dreams.
Thou may'st misunderstand. Excess of love
Takes the pale lips of coldness or of art.
And yet my eyes must surely find some way
To show the white heat burning at my heart!
Seigneur, not so dissimilar am I
From thee and thine. Thou know'st thy father's ways,
Ay, and his father's; much the castle blood
Mixed with the village stream in former days.
Signs of more brilliant lineage than my own
Many have marked in me. Take heed of this;
Find me not too unworthy of thine arms;
These lips are thine knowing no other kiss.
Think; if thou givest me an hour's delight
It will be all my life will ever know.
Seigneur, have pity on this love of mine
And lend thyself to me before I go
Back to my narrow life. The whitest star
May let its pure and trembling beauty rest
In the dim silver of the smallest pool;
Wherefore not thou a moment on my breast?
I am thine own by immemorial right,
Stoop thou and take that privilege of thine;
An hour's dalliance in thy life. Seigneur,
And an eternal memory in mine!