“What things are griefs?” the Lady Margot sighed And moved a little nearer pityingly. “The wonder wasteth from my days,” he cried, “The burden of my blessings wearieth me! Lo I have journeyed from an unoared sea In the white north to where the winds caress Warm sail-sown oceans murmuring round a key Odorous with wine and fruit in fragrant dress---- And yet I passion for some little happiness.” “Ay, now,” the lady cried, “most strangely come Are you, Sir Knight, for I am one who longs As never heart has longed before for some Strange world, strange tongue tuneful with alien songs, Strange mad old cities brooding on their wrongs, With unfamiliar streets which smile and show Me many a colonnade and portico Where some unclaimed and starry hour belongs. O you who know all that I long for--bid me go!” No strange thing seemed her prayer unto the knight Who knew her father’s little court by name, And pitied her that all her beauty bright Must fail and fade in such confined fame. Swiftly he knelt to her and with no shame She gave her hand the while he led her where Within the close the moon took silvery aim And lured a sickle bed of bloom to bear In bloom’s sweet stead a birth of stars pearly as air. The lady stooped and laid her little hand Upon a dreaming lily whose faint cream And gold, stirred at the fingers’ soft demand, Dreamed that the white touch was their sweetest dream. The lady rose and every opiate beam Made lucent pillage from her unbound hair And moths brushed lightly through the saffron stream In quest of stars. The lady was so fair That the dusk swooned with passion and the light with prayer. “Nay, now, my child,” the knight said courteously, “Would that your joy lay in your castle home, In phantom folk who pace your broidery, In haunted parchment of a pictured tome. But if you are of those whose hearts must roam Afar afield to meet the hushed advance Of spheres and win from the blown spray and foam What weaker some leave to impotent chance Then, by my blade, that blade shall bring deliverance!” A little door, covert in creeping green, Gave from the court upon the room where lay The aged doting nurse who wept, I ween, At all the Lady Margot strove to say. But when it had proved vain to weep or pray, She rose and bade her trembling fingers light Her taper and thereby she led the way Through secret gates till, soberly bedight, The three set forth together in the faery night.