Patience, Beloved; these may come to live A life fulfilled of all I have to give, But bare of strife and story; and ye know well How wild a tale of him might be to tell Had I not snatched away the sword and crown; Yea, and she too was made for world's renown, And should have won it, had my bow not been; These that I love were very king and queen; I have discrowned them, shall I not crown too? Ye know, Beloved, what sharp bitter dew, What parching torment of unresting day Falls on the garden of my deathless bay:     Hands that have gathered it and feet that came Beneath its shadow have known flint and flame; Therefore I love them; and they love no less Each furlong of the road of past distress.     —Ah, Faithful, tell me for what rest and peace, What length of happy days and world's increase, What hate of wailing, and what love of laughter, What hope and fear of worlds to be hereafter, Would ye cast by that crown of bitter leaves?

And yet, ye say, our very heart it grieves To see him lying there: how may he save His life and love if he more pain must have? And she—how fares it with her? is not earth From winter's sorrow unto summer's mirth Grown all too narrow for her yearning heart? We pray thee, Love, keep these no more apart.

Ye say but sooth: not long may he endure:     And her heart sickeneth past all help or cure Unless I hasten to the helping—see, Am I not girt for going speedily?     —The journey lies before me long?—nay, nay, Upon my feet the dust is lying grey, The staff is heavy in my hand.—Ye too, Have ye not slept? or what is this ye do, Wearying to find the country ye are in?

Look, look! how sun and morn at last do win Upon the shifting waves of mist! behold That mountain-wall the earth-fires rent of old, Grey toward the valley, sun-gilt at the side! See the black yew-wood that the pass doth hide! Search through the mist for knoll, and fruited tree, And winding stream, and highway white—and see, See, at my feet lies Pharamond the Freed! A happy journey have we gone indeed!

Hearken, Beloved, over-long, ye deem, I let these lovers deal with hope and dream Alone unholpen.—Somewhat sooth ye say:     But now her feet are on this very way That leadeth from the city: and she saith One beckoneth her back hitherward—even Death—     And who was that, Beloved, but even I? Yet though her feet and sunlight are drawn nigh The cold grass where he lieth like the dead, To ease your hearts a little of their dread I will 

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