The South grew all a nightingale
Beneath a moon unmoved:
Like the banner of war she led them on;
She left them to lie, like the light that has gone
From wine-cups overproved.
V
When the South was a fervid nightingale,
And she a chilling moon,
’Twas pity to see on the garden swards,
Against Love’s laws, those rival lords
As willow-wands lie strewn.
VI
The South had throat of a nightingale
For her, the young princess:
She gave no vine of Love to rear,
Love’s wine drank not, yet bent her ear
To themes of Love no less.
II
I
The lords of the Court they sighed heart-sick,
Heart-free Lord Dusiote laughed:
I prize her no more than a fling o’ the dice,
But, or shame to my manhood, a lady of ice,
We master her by craft!
II
Heart-sick the lords of joyance yawned,
Lord Dusiote laughed heart-free:
I count her as much as a crack o’ my thumb,
But, or shame of my manhood, to me she shall come
Like the bird to roost in the tree!