IX

THE MEDIEVAL MIRROR-CASES

I

Rondels of old French ivory to-day  (Poor perished beauty's deathless mirror-cases!) Reveal to me the delicate amorous play Of reed-like flowering folk with pointed faces. Lovers ride hawking; over chess delight; The Castle of Ladies renders up its keys, Its roses all being flung; a gracious knight Kneels to his garlander mid orchard-trees. Passionate pilgrims, do ye keep so fast Your dream of miracles and heights? Ah, shent And sore-bewildered shall ye couch at last In bitter beds of disillusionment. In the Black Orchard the foul raven grieves White Love, on some Montfauçon of the thieves.

 

 

 

 

X

THE MIRROR-CASES

II

O treasonable heart and perverse words, Ye darken beauty with your plots of pain! What languors beat through me like muted chords? I know indeed that suffering shall profane These lovers, sweet as viols or violet-spices. Strangely must end their dreamy chess-playing, Strange wounds amaze their broidered Paradises, And stain the falconry and garlanding. Their bodies must be broken as on wheels, Their souls be carded with implacable shame,— Molten like wax, be crushed beneath the seals Of sin and penance. Yet, with wings 

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