A Ballad of Life
I found in dreams a place of wind and flowers,
Full of sweet trees and
colour of glad grass,
In midst whereof there
was
A lady clothed like summer with sweet
hours.
Her beauty, fervent as a fiery moon,
Made my blood burn and
swoon
Like a flame rained upon.
Sorrow had filled her shaken eyelids’
blue,
And her mouth’s sad red
heavy rose all through
Seemed sad with glad things gone.
She held a little cithern by the
strings,
Shaped heartwise, strung
with subtle-coloured hair
Of some dead
lute-player
That in dead years had done delicious
things.
The seven strings were named
accordingly;
The first string
charity,
The second tenderness,
The rest were pleasure,
sorrow, sleep, and sin,
And loving-kindness, that
is pity’s kin
And is most pitiless.
There were three men with her, each
garmented
With gold and shod with
gold upon the feet;
And with plucked ears of
wheat
The first man’s hair was
wound upon his head:
His face was red, and his
mouth curled and sad;
All his gold garment
had
Pale stains of dust and rust.
A riven hood was pulled across his
eyes;
The token of him being upon
this wise
Made for a sign of Lust.
The next was Shame, with hollow heavy
face
Coloured like green wood when flame
kindles it.
He hath such feeble feet
They may not well endure in any place.
His face was full of grey old
miseries,
And all his blood’s
increase
Was even increase of pain.
The last was Fear, that is akin to
Death;
He is Shame’s friend, and
always as Shame saith
Fear answers him again.
My soul said in me; This is
marvellous,
Seeing the air’s face is
not so delicate
Nor the sun’s grace so
great,
If sin and she be kin or amorous.
And seeing where maidens served her on
their knees,
I bade one crave of
these
To know the cause thereof.
Then Fear said: I am Pity that was dead.
And Shame said: I am Sorrow comforted.
And Lust said: I am Love.
Thereat her hands began a
lute-playing
And her sweet mouth a song
in a strange tongue;
And all the while she
sung
There was no sound but long
tears following
Long tears upon men’s
faces, waxen white
With extreme sad delight.
But those three following men
Became as men raised up
among the dead;
Great glad mouths open and
fair cheeks made red
With child’s blood come again.
Then I said: Now assuredly I see
My lady is perfect, and
transfigureth
All sin and sorrow and
death,
Making them fair as her own
eyelids be,
Or lips wherein my whole
soul’s life abides;
Or as her sweet white
sides
And bosom carved to kiss.
Now therefore, if her pity further
me,
Doubtless for her sake all
my days shall be
As righteous as she is.
Forth, ballad, and take roses in both
arms,
Even till the top rose
touch thee in the throat
Where the least thornprick
harms;
And girdled in thy golden
singing-coat,
Come thou before my lady
and say this;
Borgia, thy gold hair’s
colour burns in me,
Thy mouth makes beat my
blood in feverish rhymes;
Therefore so many as these
roses be,
Kiss me so many times.
Then it may be, seeing how sweet she
That she will stoop herself
none otherwise
Than a blown vine-branch
doth,
And kiss thee with soft
laughter on thine eyes,
Ballad, and on thy mouth.