Old Love

You must be very old, Sir Giles,
    I said; he said: Yea, very old!
Whereat the mournfullest of smiles
    Creased his dry skin with many a fold.

They hammer'd out my basnet point
    Into a round salade, he said,
The basnet being quite out of joint,
    Natheless the salade rasps my head.

He gazed at the great fire awhile:
    And you are getting old, Sir John;
(He said this with that cunning smile
    That was most sad) we both wear on;

Knights come to court and look at me,
    With eyebrows up; except my lord,
And my dear lady, none I see
    That know the ways of my old sword.

(My lady! at that word no pang
    Stopp'd all my blood). But tell me, John,
Is it quite true that Pagans hang
    So thick about the east, that on

The eastern sea no Venice flag
    Can fly unpaid for? True, I said,
And in such way the miscreants drag
    Christ's cross upon the ground, I dread

That Constantine must fall this year.
    Within my heart, these things are small;
This is not small, that things outwear
    I thought were made for ever, yea, all,

All things go soon or late, I said.
    I saw the duke in court next day;
Just as before, his grand great head
    Above his gold robes dreaming lay,

Only his face was paler; there
    I saw his duchess sit by him;
And she, she was changed more; her hair
    Before my eyes that used to swim,

And make me dizzy with great bliss
    Once, when I used to watch her sit,
Her hair is bright still, yet it is
    As though some dust were thrown on it.

Her eyes are shallower, as though
    Some grey glass were behind; her brow
And cheeks the straining bones show through,
    Are not so good for kissing now.

Her lips are drier now she is
    A great duke's wife these many years,
They will not shudder with a kiss
    As once they did, being moist with tears.

Also her hands have lost that way
    Of clinging that they used to have;
They look'd quite easy, as they lay
    Upon the silken cushions brave

With broidery of the apples green
    My Lord Duke bears upon his shield.
Her face, alas! that I have seen
    Look fresher than an April field,

This is all gone now; gone also
    Her tender walking; when she walks
She is most queenly I well know,
    And she is fair still. As the stalks

Of faded summer-lilies are,
    So is she grown now unto me
This spring-time, when the flowers star
    The meadows, birds sing wonderfully.

I warrant once she used to cling
    About his neck, and kiss'd him so,
And then his coming step would ring
    Joy-bells for her; some time ago.

Ah! sometimes like an idle dream
    That hinders true life overmuch,
Sometimes like a lost heaven, these seem.
    This love is not so hard to smutch.