thenceforward; yet oft in the council, Mid the hearkening folk craving for justice or mercy, Mid the righting of wrongs and the staying of ruin, Mid the ruling a dull folk, who deemed all my kingship A thing due and easy as the dawning and sunset To the day that God made once to deal with no further—     —Mid all these a fair face, a sad face, could I fashion, And I said, She is seeking, and shall I not seek?     —Tell over the days of the year of hope's waning; Tell over the hours of the weary days wearing:     Tell over the minutes of the hours of thy waking, Then wonder he liveth who fails of his longing!

What wouldst thou have, son, wherein I might help thee?

Hearken yet:—for a long time no more I beheld her Till a month agone now at the ending of Maytide; And then in the first of the morning I found me Fulfilled of all joy at the edge of the yew-wood; Then lo, her gown's flutter in the fresh breeze of morning, And slower and statelier than her wont was aforetime And fairer of form toward the yew-wood she wended. But woe's me! as she came and at last was beside me With sobbing scarce ended her bosom was heaving, Stained with tears was her face, and her mouth was yet quivering With torment of weeping held back for a season. Then swiftly my spirit to the King's bed was wafted While still toward the sea were her weary feet wending.     —Ah surely that day of all wrongs that I hearkened Mine own wrongs seemed heaviest and hardest to bear—     Mine own wrongs and hers—till that past year of ruling Seemed a crime and a folly. Night came, and I saw her Stealing barefoot, bareheaded amidst of the tulips Made grey by the moonlight: and a long time Love gave me To gaze on her weeping—morn came, and I wakened—     I wakened and said: Through the World will I wander, Till either I find her, or find the World empty.

Yea, son, wilt thou go? Ah thou knowest from of old time My words might not stay thee from aught thou wert willing; And e'en so it must be now. And yet hast thou asked me To go with thee, son, if aught I might help thee?—     Ah me, if thy face might gladden a little I should meet the world better and mock at its mocking:     If thou goest to find her, why then hath there fallen This heaviness on thee? is thy heart waxen feeble?

O friend, I have seen her no more, and her mourning Is alone and unhelped—yet to-night or to-morrow Somewhat nigher will I be to her love and her longing. Lo, to thee, friend, alone of all 

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