Lend me, a little while, the key That locks your heavy heart, and I’ll give you back-- Rarer than books and ribbons and beads bright to see, This little Key of Dreams out of my pack. The road, the road, beyond men’s bolted doors, There shall I walk and you go free of me, For yours lies North across the moors, And mine South. To what sea? How if we stopped and let our solemn selves go by, While my gay ghost caught and kissed yours, as ghosts don’t do, And by the wayside this forgotten you and I Sat, and were twenty-two? Give me the key that locks your tired eyes, And I will lend you this one from my pack, Brighter than coloured beads and painted books that make men wise: Take it. No, give it back! PÉCHERESSE Down the long quay the slow boats glide, While here and there a house looms white Against the gloom of the waterside, And some high window throws a light As they sail out into the night. At dawn they will bring in again To women knitting on the quay Who wait for him, their man of men; I stand with them, and watch the sea Which may have taken mine from me. Just so the long days come and go. The nights, ma Doué! the nights are cold! Our Lady’s heart is as frozen snow, Since this one sin I have not told; And I shall die or perhaps grow old Before he comes. The foreign ships Bring many a one of face and name As strange as his, to buy your lips, A gold piece for a scarlet shame Like mine. But mine was not the same. One night was ours, one short grey day Of sudden sin, unshrived, untold. He found me, and I lost the way To Paradise for him. I sold My soul for love and not for gold. He bought my soul, but even so, My face is all that he has seen, His is the only face I know, And in the dark church, like a screen, It shuts God out; it comes between; While in some narrow foreign street Or loitering on the crowded quay, Who knows what others he may meet To turn his eyes away from me? Many are fair to such as he! There is but one for such as I To love, to hate, to hunger for; I shall, perhaps, grow old and die, With one short day to spend and store, One night, in all my life, no more. Just so the long days come and go, Yet this one sin I will not tell Though Mary’s heart is as frozen snow And all nights are cold for one warmed too well. But, oh! ma Doué! _the nights of Hell!_ THE CHANGELING