love that ye give us, Of your lives full of glory, of the deeds that your lifetime Shall gleam with for ever when we are forgotten. Forgive it for the greatness of that Love who compels us.—     Hark! in the minster-tower minish the joy-bells, And all men are hushed now these marvels to hear.

We thank your love, that sees our love indeed Toward you, toward Love, toward life of toil and need:     We shall not falter though your poet sings Of all defeat, strewing the crowns of kings About the thorny ways where Love doth wend, Because we know us faithful to the end Toward you, toward Love, toward life of war and deed, And well we deem your tale shall help our need.

So many hours to pass before the sun Shall blush ere sleeping, and the day be done! How thinkest thou, my sweet, shall such a tale For lengthening or for shortening them avail?

Nay, dreamland has no clocks the wise ones say, And while our hands move at the break of day We dream of years: and I am dreaming still And need no change my cup of joy to fill:     Let them say on, and I shall hear thy voice Telling the tale, and in its love rejoice.

THE MUSIC

(As the singers enter and stand before the curtain, the player-king and player-maiden in the midst.)

LOVE IS ENOUGH

Lo you, my sweet, fair folk are one and all And with good grace their broidered robes do fall, And sweet they sing indeed: but he, the King, Look but a little how his fingers cling To her's, his love that shall be in the play—     His love that hath been surely ere to-day:     And see, her wide soft eyes cast down at whiles Are opened not to note the people's smiles But her love's lips, and dreamily they stare As though they sought the happy country, where     They two shall be alone, and the world dead.

Most faithful eyes indeed look from the head The sun has burnt, and wind and rain has beat, Well may he find her slim brown fingers sweet. And he—methinks he trembles, lest he find That song of his not wholly to her mind. Note how his grey eyes look askance to see Her bosom heaving with the melody His heart loves well: rough with the wind and rain His cheek is, hollow with some ancient pain; The sun has burned and blanched his crispy hair, And over him hath swept a world of care And left him careless, rugged, and her own; Still fresh desired, still 

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