Your face must hurt me always: pray you now, Doth it not hurt you too? seemeth some pain To hold you always, pain to hold your brow So smooth, unwrinkled ever; yea again, Your long eyes where the lids seem like to drop, Would you not, lady, were they shut fast, feel Far merrier? there so high they will not stop, They are most sly to glide forth and to steal Into my heart; I kiss their soft lids there, And in green gardens scarce can stop my lips From wandering on your face, but that your hair Falls down and tangles me, back my face slips. Or say your mouth, I saw you drink red wine Once at a feast; how slowly it sank in, As though you fear'd that some wild fate might twine Within that cup, and slay you for a sin. And when you talk your lips do arch and move In such wise that a language new I know Besides their sound; they quiver, too, with love When you are standing silent; know this, too, I saw you kissing once, like a curved sword That bites with all its edge, did your lips lie, Curled gently, slowly, long time could afford For caught-up breathings: like a dying sigh They gather'd up their lines and went away, And still kept twitching with a sort of smile, As likely to be weeping presently; Your hands too, how I watch'd them all the while! Cry out St. Peter now, quoth Aldovrand; I cried, St. Peter! broke out from the wood With all my spears; we met them hand to hand, And shortly slew them; natheless, by the rood, We caught not Blackhead then, or any day; Months after that he died at last in bed, From a wound pick'd up at a barrier-fray; That same year's end a steel bolt in the head, And much bad living killed Teste Noire at last; John Froissart knoweth he is dead by now, No doubt, but knoweth not this tale just past; Perchance then you can tell him what I show. In my new castle, down beside the Eure, There is a little chapel of squared stone, Painted inside and out; in green nook pure There did I lay them, every wearied bone; And over it they lay, with stone-white hands Clasped fast together, hair made bright with gold; This Jaques Picard, known through many lands, Wrought cunningly; he's dead now: I am old. A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON SIR GUY, _being in the court of a Pagan castle_. This castle where I dwell, it stands A long way off from Christian lands, A long way off my lady's hands, A long way off the aspen trees, And murmur of the lime-tree bees.