  When my Lady hath Pleasure and friends to spare, And riot of roses strewed in her path of days, And laughter ringing carillons into the air, She needs not me; I travel the lonely ways. When my Lady hath Youth uplifting a song Like the twitter of birds in a springtime hawthorn bough, And round her the notes of a merry-mad music throng, She needs not me; my music is sad and low. But when my Lady hath Sorrow to stress her heart, And Pain brings up to her eyes the ghosts of fear, And the music of Youth, and Laughter and Joy depart, Then she will need me: and lo! am I not here? Here I stand at the gateway and vigil keep, Waiting the summoning sob or the calling sigh; Swift to assuage her tears should my Lady weep; Happy if sorrow for ever may pass her by. |
|
