Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover,
When the white hart breaks his cover
And the white wind breaks the morn.
‘’Tis the white stag, Fame, we’re a-hunting,
Bid the world’s hounds come to horn!’
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These tales of old disguisings, are they not
Unwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue,Some soul from all the rest who’d not forgotThe star-span acres of a former lotWhere boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,Or carnate with his elder brothers sungEre ballad-makers lisped of Camelot?Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,Old painters color-blind come back once more,Old poets skill-less in the wind-heart…
You say that I take a good deal upon myself;
In a few years no one will remember the buffo,No one will remember the trivial parts of me,The comic detail will be absent.As for you, you will rot in the earth,And it is doubtful if even your manure will be richenoughTo keep grassOver your grave.
When I behold how black, immortal ink
Why should we stop at all for what I think?There is enough in what I chance to say.It is enough that we once came together;What is the use of setting it to rime?When it is autumn do we get spring weather,Or gather may of harsh northwindish time?It is enough that we once came together;What if…
No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately.
For my surrounding air hath a new lightness;Slight are her arms, yet they have bound me straitlyAnd left me cloaked as with a gauze of aether;As with sweet leaves; as with subtle clearness.Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearnessTo sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her.No, no! Go from me….
I would bathe myself in strangeness:
I burn, I scald so for the new,New friends, new faces,Places!Oh to be out of this,This that is all I wanted– save the new.And you,Love, you the much, the more desired!Do I not loathe all walls, streets, stones,All mire, mist, all fog,All ways of traffic?You, I wold have flow over me like water,Oh, but far…
Canto XXXVI
A Lady asks meI speak in seasonShe seeks reason for an affect, wild oftenThat is so proud he hath Love for a nameWho denys it can hear the truth nowWherefore I speak to the present knowersHaving no hope that low-heartedCan bring sight to such reasonBe there not natural demonstrationI have no will to try proof-bringingOr…