Golden, no doubt, once: yea, and very small, This for a knight; but for a dame, my lord, These loose-hung bones seem shapely still, and tall. Didst ever see a woman's bones, my Lord? Often, God help me! I remember when I was a simple boy, fifteen years old, The Jacquerie froze up the blood of men With their fell deeds, not fit now to be told. God help again! we enter'd Beauvais town, Slaying them fast, whereto I help'd, mere boy As I was then; we gentles cut them down, These burners and defilers, with great joy. Reason for that, too, in the great church there These fiends had lit a fire, that soon went out, The church at Beauvais being so great and fair: My father, who was by me, gave a shout Between a beast's howl and a woman's scream, Then, panting, chuckled to me: 'John, look! look! Count the dames' skeletons!' From some bad dream Like a man just awaked, my father shook; And I, being faint with smelling the burnt bones, And very hot with fighting down the street, And sick of such a life, fell down, with groans My head went weakly nodding to my feet. --An arrow had gone through her tender throat, And her right wrist was broken; then I saw The reason why she had on that war-coat, Their story came out clear without a flaw; For when he knew that they were being waylaid, He threw it over her, yea, hood and all; Whereby he was much hack'd, while they were stay'd By those their murderers; many an one did fall Beneath his arm, no doubt, so that he clear'd Their circle, bore his death-wound out of it; But as they rode, some archer least afear'd Drew a strong bow, and thereby she was hit. Still as he rode he knew not she was dead, Thought her but fainted from her broken wrist, He bound with his great leathern belt: she bled? Who knows! he bled too, neither was there miss'd The beating of her heart, his heart beat well For both of them, till here, within this wood, He died scarce sorry; easy this to tell; After these years the flowers forget their blood. How could it be? never before that day, However much a soldier I might be, Could I look on a skeleton and say I care not for it, shudder not: now see, Over those bones I sat and pored for hours, And thought, and dream'd, and still I scarce could see The small white bones that lay upon the flowers, But evermore I saw the lady; she With her dear gentle walking leading in, By a chain of silver twined about her wrists, Her loving knight, mounted and arm'd to win Great honour for her, fighting in the lists. O most pale face, that brings such joy and sorrow Into men's hearts (yea, too, so piercing sharp That joy is, that it marcheth nigh to sorrow For ever, like an overwinded harp).