But Ralph looked to right and left and saw no deliverance, and knew this for the first hour of his thralldom. Yet, as he thought of it all, he remembered that if he would do, he must needs bear and forbear; and his face cleared, and he looked round about again and let his eyes rest calmly on all eyes that he met till they came on the Lord's face again. Then he let his hand fall into the strings and they fell a-tinkling sweetly, like unto the song of the winter robin, and at last he lifted his voice and sang: Still now is the stithy this morning unclouded, Nought stirs in the thorp save the yellow-haired maid A-peeling the withy last Candlemas shrouded From the mere where the moorhen now swims unafraid. For over the Ford now the grass and the clover Fly off from the tines as the wind driveth on; And soon round the Sword-howe the swathe shall lie over, And to-morrow at even the mead shall be won. But the Hall of the Garden amidst the hot morning, It drew my feet thither; I stood at the door, And felt my heart harden 'gainst wisdom and warning As the sun and my footsteps came on to the floor. When the sun lay behind me, there scarce in the dimness I saw what I sought for, yet trembled to find; But it came forth to find me, until the sleek slimness Of the summer-clad woman made summer o'er kind. There we the once-sundered together were blended, We strangers, unknown once, were hidden by naught. I kissed and I wondered how doubt was all ended, How friendly her excellent fairness was wrought. Round the hall of the Garden the hot sun is burning, But no master nor minstrel goes there in the shade, It hath never a warden till comes the returning, When the moon shall hang high and all winds shall be laid. Waned the day and I hied me afield, and thereafter I sat with the mighty when daylight was done, But with great men beside me, midst high-hearted laughter, I deemed me of all men the gainfullest one. To wisdom I hearkened; for there the wise father Cast the seed of his learning abroad o'er the hall, Till men's faces darkened, but mine gladdened rather With the thought of the knowledge I knew over all. Sang minstrels the story, and with the song's welling Men looked on each other and glad were they grown, But mine was the glory of the tale and its telling How the loved and the lover were naught but mine own.