It was a knight of the southern land
Rode forth upon the way
When the birds sang sweet on either hand
About the middle of the May.
But when he came to the lily-close,
Thereby so fair a maiden stood,
That neither the lily nor the rose
Seemed any longer fair nor good.
All hail, thou rose and lily-bough!
What dost thou weeping here,
For the days of May are sweet enow,
And the nights of May are dear?
Well may I weep and make my moan,
Who am bond and captive here;
Well may I weep who lie alone,
Though May be waxen dear.
And is there none shall ransom thee;
Mayst thou no borrow find?
Nay, what man may my borrow be,
When all my wealth is left behind?
Perchance some ring is left with thee,
Some belt that did thy body bind?
Nay, no man may my borrow be,
My rings and belt are left behind.
The shoes that the May-blooms kissed on thee
Might yet be things to some mens mind.
Nay, no man may my borrow be,
My golden shoes are left behind.
The milk-white sark that covered thee
A dear-bought token some should find.
Nay, no man may my borrow be,
My silken sark is left behind.
The kiss of thy mouth and the love of thee
Better than worlds wealth should I find.
Nay, thou mayst not my borrow be,
For all my love is left behind.
A year agone come Midsummer-night
I woke by the Northern sea;
I lay and dreamed of my delight
Till love no more would let me be.
Seaward I went by night and cloud
To hear the white swans sing;
But though they sang both clear and loud,
I hearkened a sweeter thing.
O sweet and sweet as none may tell
Was the speech so close twixt lip and lip:
But fast, unseen, the black oars fell
That drave to shore the rovers ship.
My love lay bloody on the strand
Ere stars were waxen wan:
Naught lacketh graves the Northern land
If to-day it lack a lovelier man.
I sat and wept beside the mast
When the stars were gone away.
Naught lacketh the Northland joy gone past
If it lack the night and day.
Is there no place in any land
Where thou wouldst rather be than here?
Yea, a lone grave on a cold sea-strand
My heart for a little holdeth dear.
Of all the deeds that women do
Is there none shall bring thee some delight?
To lie down and die where lay we two
Upon Midsummer night.
I will bring thee there where thou wouldst be,
A borrow shalt thou find.
Wherewith shall I reward it thee
For wealth and good-hap left behind?
A kiss from lips that love not me,
A good-night somewhat kind;
A narrow house to share with thee
When we leave the world behind.
They have taken ship and sailed away
Across the Southland main;
They have sailed by hills were green and gay,
A land of goods and gain.
They have sailed by sea-cliffs stark and white
And hillsides fair enow;
They have sailed by lands of little night
Where great the groves did grow.
They have sailed by islands in the sea
That the clouds lay thick about;
And into a main where few ships be
Amidst of dread, and doubt.
With broken mast and battered side
They drave amidst the tempests heart;
But why should death to these betide
Whom love did hold so well apart?
The flood it drave them toward the strand,
The ebb it drew them fro;
The swallowing seas that tore the land
Cast them ashore and let them go.
Is this the land? is this the land,
Where life and I must part a-twain?
Yea, this is een the sea-washed strand
That made me yoke-fellow of pain.
The strand is this, the sea is this,
The grey bent and the mountains grey;
But no mound here his grave-mound is;
Where have they borne my love away?
What man is this with shield and spear
Comes riding down the bent to us?
A goodly man forsooth he were
But for his visage piteous.
Ghost of my love, so kind of yore,
Art thou not somewhat gladder grown
To feel my feet upon this shore?
O love, thou shalt not long be lone.
Ghost of my love, each day I come
To see where God first wrought us wrong:
Now kind thou comst to call me home,
Be sure I shall not tarry long.
Come here, my love; come here for rest,
So sore as my body longs for thee!
My heart shall beat against thy breast
As arms of thine shall comfort me.
Love, let thy lips depart no more
From those same eyes they once did kiss,
The very bosom wounded sore
When sorrow clave the heart of bliss!
O was it day, or was it night,
As there they told their love again?
The high-tide of the suns delight,
Or whirl of wind and drift of rain?
Speak sweet, my love, of how it fell,
And how thou camst across the sea,
And what kind heart hath served thee well,
And who thy borrow there might be?
Naught but the wind and sea made moan
As hastily she turned her round;
From light clouds wept the morn alone,
Not the dead corpse upon the ground.
O look, my love, for here is he
Who once of all the world was kind,
And led my sad heart oer the sea!
And now must he be left behind.
She kissed his lips that yet did smile,
She kissed his eyes that were not sad:
O thou who sorrow didst beguile,
And now wouldst have me wholly glad!
A little gift is this, she said,
Thou once hadst deemed great gift enow;
Yet surely shalt thou rest thine head
Where I one day shall lie alow.
There shalt thou wake to think of me,
And by thy face my face shall find;
And I shall then thy borrow be
When all the world is left behind.
