Into the lonely park all frozen fast,
Awhile ago there were two forms who passed.
Shall one be sorrowful because of love,
Which hath no earthly crown,
Which lives and dies, unknown?
Because no words of his shall ever move
I was always a lover of ladies' hands!
Or ever mine heart came here to tryst,
For the sake of your carved white hands' commands;
With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,
Without, the sullen noises of the street!
The voice of London, inarticulate,
Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet
The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof,
(This is the end of every song man sings!)
The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,
Around were all the roses red,
The ivy all around was black.
Here, where the breath of the scented-gorse floats through the
All the moon-shed nights are over,
And the days of gray and dun;
There is neither may nor clover,
And the day and night are one.
Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire,
Have these white monks been brought into the way of peace,