She knelt her at his couch’s foot, he saw her sorrow rise, Her tears bestarred his fair embroidered sheet, She pierced his silken coverlid with pity of her eyes, Her tenderness descended, like the dews of Paradise Or grace of shining chrism, upon his feet— The feet that trod the russet woods and broke the bracken curls; And crushed the purple whinberries, that grow for little girls, When the silly foreign feathers fell a-screaming to his gun. And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run.
And her tears recalled Sir Matho to a Woman ’neath a Tree, ’Twas an old pietà in his hall below (Bought to pass the time at Christie’s for a song) wherein you see How a Mother holds the Body of her Son upon her knee, But her eyes are red for them that dealt the blow. “This woman has forgiven me, and You forgive,” he cried. “So He may still be merciful.” With that Sir Matho died. But Satan ceased to blow the fire that he had well begun. And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run.
THE PETALS
Yourself in bed (My lovely Drowsy-head) Your garments lie like petals shed
Upon the floor Whose carpet is strewn o’er With little things that late you wore.
For the morrow’s wear I fold them neat and fair And lay them on the nursery chair;
And round them lie Airs of the hours that die With all their stored-up fragrancy.
As a flower might Give out to the cool night The warmth it drank in day-long light
So wool and lawn From your soft skin withdrawn (Whereon they were assumed at dawn)