[Sidenote: The king builds a hermitage from life and passion wherein he hangs many bells.] The king has built a hermitage of bells Beyond the city walls upon a hill, Save when the bells are ringing for the king, His garden by the sea is forest still, Set on a cape curved like a hunter's horn, Rock terraced like the temples of Cathay, It overlooks the town and fields of corn And glimpses topsail-ships at break of day. And there a deep spring flows called _Blanchefontaine_ That sings a deathlike monody of rest, All night the sick moon totters on its alban waters-- It drips a sound like summer rain, When the sun opens up his eye, Until he stares like Cyclops from the west. It slips through oak groves with an easy motion, Twinkling like starlight from its shady source, Three times it curves before it meets the ocean Across the tide rip hoarse. [Sidenote: Like the bells in the garden, the water speaks of peace and sleep.] Farther up The oak groves end abrupt, But down that narrow valley Like a darkened alley, The water falls and calls And seeps and leaps And speaks by waterfalls; Till the wanderer believes There are voices in the leaves, Whispering like thirsty lips, Calling like muffled bells from misty ships, Gurgling like pigeons from the eaves-- It is a demon din Of subterranean voices old and thin, An elfin carillon the water rings As it sweeps on. Halfway in that night Of oak twilight, Where the stream dashes down a verge, The sound of ocean and of river merge. And it is strange to see The leaves whirl eerily, When like an icy kiss, Comes the long withering hiss Of the tormented sea. [Sidenote: The world, knowing only itself, thinks the king is mad or bewitched to leave it and the love of the queen for solitude.] The king is melancholy mad, I guess, To dwell in such a dim and rustling place, Perhaps he has a sin beyond redress, Perhaps he sees him visions of a face. Some say it is a bell Has lured him to the garden by a spell, And that the spell is holy; Holy or not, it's melancholy! For when the queen rides to him from the town, With two maids posting, one on either side, Her face is veiled with black when she rides down-- Like mourners by a hearse her two maids ride-- Her face is veiled with black, The reins hang slack; Some say she weeps, But who can tell? Why should the queen weep when she hears a bell? [Sidenote: The queen, desiring the love of her lord above all things, calls him from his garden, but is mocked by the voice of the solitude.]