| |
Yolande dit, en soupirant:
“It is long since we met,” she said. | |
I answered, “Yes.”
She is not fair, | |
| But very old now, and no gold | |
| Gleams in that scant, gray, withered hair | |
| Where once much gold was; and, I think, | 5 |
| Not easily might one bring tears | |
| Into her eyes, which have become | |
Like dusty glass.
“’Tis thirty years,” | |
| I said. “And then the war came on | |
| Apace; and our young king had need | 10 |
| Of men to serve him oversea, | |
| Against the heathen. For their greed, | |
| Puffed up at Tunis, irks him sore.” | |
| |
| She said, “This week my son is gone | |
| To him at Paris with his men.” | 15 |
| And then, “You never married, John?” | |
| |
| I answered, “No.” And so we sate | |
Musing a while.
Then with his guests | |
| Came Robert; and his thin voice broke | |
| Upon my dream, with the old jests— | 20 |
| No food for laughter now; and swore | |
| We must be friends now that our feud | |
Was overpast.
“We are grown old— | |
| Eh, John?” he said. “And, by the Rood! | |
| ’Tis time we were at peace with God, | 25 |
Who are not long for this world.”
“Yea,” | |
| I answered; “we are old.” And then, | |
| Remembering that April day | |
| At Calais, and that hawthorn field | |
| Wherein we fought long since, I said, | 30 |
“We are friends now.”
And she sate by, | |
| Scarce heeding. Thus the evening sped. | |
| |
| And we ride homeward now, and I | |
| Ride moodily: my palfrey jogs | |
| Along a rock-strewn way the moon | 35 |
| Lights up for us; yonder the bogs | |
| Are curdled with thin ice; the trees | |
| Are naked; from the barren wold | |
| The wind comes like a blade aslant | |
| Across a world grown very old. | 40 |
| |
