  Upon the river’s brink she stands And tastes the dawn’s white breath. She wrings her slender, silver hands, “God’s curse on love,” she saith. “Love binds me with his cruel bands That break not save with death.” “Now Geoffrey is a huntsman bold And slays the mountain deer, And Hugh plows up the fragrant mold And plucks the ripened ear. In friendship would these twain grow old Did I not dwell anear. “Hugh brings me grapes with sunlight sweet, Like globes of amethyst, While Geoffrey’s fawn with snowflake feet Is corded to my wrist. They mutter curses when they meet, Their sight dims with red mist. “And it is love hath done this thing; Yea, Geoffrey loves my hair, And Hugh lifts up his voice to sing That my sad face is fair, And love strews poison in the spring And fouls the pleasant air. “But not for my poor loveliness Shall blood of brothers flow. What is one woman, more or less? And what is love but woe! I want no murderer’s caress, So for love’s sake—I go.” Lads, sheathe your knives, no use to fight. The lady you would wed Shall sleep alone in state tonight With candles at her head. Lift, friends, this figure still and white And bear her to her bed. |
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