Thou wandering on the turf beside The chestnut-wood may'st find thy song Fade out, as slow thou goest along, Until at last thy feet stay there As though thou bidedst something fair, And hearkenedst for a coming foot; While down the hole unto the root The long leaves flutter loud to thee The fall of spiky nuts shall be, And creeping wood-wale's noise above; For thou wouldst see the wings of Love.

Or some November eve belike Thou wandering back with bow and tyke From wolf-chase on the wind-swept hill Shall find that narrow vale and still, And Pharamond and Azalais Amidmost of that grassy place Where we twain met last year, whereby Red-shafted pine-trunks rise on high, And changeless now from year to year, What change soever brought them there, Great rocks are scattered all around:     —Wouldst thou be frightened at the sound Of their soft speech? So long ago It was since first their love did grow.

Maybe: for e'en now when he turned, His heart's scorn and his hate outburned, And love the more for that ablaze, I shuddered, e'en as in the place High up the mountains, where men say Gods dwelt in time long worn away.

At Love's voice did I tremble too, And his bright wings, for all I knew He was a comely minstrel-lad, In dainty golden raiment clad.

Yea, yea; for though to-day he spake Words measured for our pleasure's sake, From well-taught mouth not overwise, Yet did that fount of speech arise In days that ancient folk called old. O long ago the tale was told To mighty men of thought and deed, Who kindled hearkening their own need, Set forth by long-forgotten men, E'en as we kindle: praise we then Tales of old time, whereby alone The fairness of the world is shown.

A longing yet about me clings, As I had hearkened half-told things; And better than the words make plain I seem to know these lovers twain. Let us go hence, lest there should fall Something that yet should mar it all.

Hist—Master Mayor is drawn anigh; The Empress speaketh presently.

May it please you, your Graces, that I be forgiven, Over-bold, over-eager to bear forth my speech, In which yet there speaketh the Good Town, beseeching That ye tell us of your kindness if ye be contented With this breath of old tales, and shadowy seemings Of old times 

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