Strange love they have given you, love disloyal,
Who mock with praise your name,
To leave a head so rare and royal
Too low for praise or blame.
You could not love nor hate, they tell us,
You had nor sense nor sting:
In God's name, then, what plague befell us
To fight for such a thing?
"Some faults the gods will give," to fetter
Man's highest intent:
But surely you were something better
Than innocent!
No maid that strays with steps unwary
Through snares unseen,
But one to live and die for; Mary,
The Queen.
VI
Forgive them all their praise, who blot
Your fame with praise of you:
Then love may say, and falter not,
Adieu.
Yet some you hardly would forgive
Who did you much less wrong
Once: but resentment should not live
Too long.
They never saw your lip's bright bow,
Your swordbright eyes,
The bluest of heavenly things below
The skies.
Clear eyes that love's self finds most like
A swordblade's blue,
A swordblade's ever keen to strike,
Adieu.