JOAN

The afternoon is waxen grey
Now these fair shapes have passed away;
And I, who should be merry now
A-thinking of the glorious show,
Feel somewhat sad, and wish it were
To-morrow’s mid-morn fresh and fair
About the babble of our stead.

GILES

Content thee, sweet, for nowise dead
Within our hearts the story is;
It shall come back to better bliss
On many an eve of happy spring,
Or midst of summer’s flourishing. 
Or think—­some noon of autumn-tide
Thou wandering on the turf beside
The chestnut-wood may’st find thy song
Fade out, as slow thou goest along,
Until at last thy feet stay there
As though thou bidedst something fair,
And hearkenedst for a coming foot;
While down the hole unto the root
The long leaves flutter loud to thee
The fall of spiky nuts shall be,
And creeping wood-wale’s noise above;
For thou wouldst see the wings of Love.

JOAN

Or some November eve belike
Thou wandering back with bow and tyke
From wolf-chase on the wind-swept hill
Shall find that narrow vale and still,
And Pharamond and Azalais
Amidmost of that grassy place
Where we twain met last year, whereby
Red-shafted pine-trunks rise on high,
And changeless now from year to year,
What change soever brought them there,
Great rocks are scattered all around: 
—­Wouldst thou be frightened at the sound
Of their soft speech?  So long ago
It was since first their love did grow.

GILES

Maybe:  for e’en now when he turned,
His heart’s scorn and his hate outburned,
And love the more for that ablaze,
I shuddered, e’en as in the place
High up the mountains, where men say
Gods dwelt in time long worn away.

JOAN

At Love’s voice did I tremble too,
And his bright wings, for all I knew
He was a comely minstrel-lad,
In dainty golden raiment clad.

GILES

Yea, yea; for though to-day he spake
Words measured for our pleasure’s sake,
From well-taught mouth not overwise,
Yet did that fount of speech arise
In days that ancient folk called old. 
O long ago the tale was told
To mighty men of thought and deed,
Who kindled hearkening their own need,
Set forth by long-forgotten men,
E’en as we kindle:  praise we then
Tales of old time, whereby alone
The fairness of the world is shown.

JOAN

A longing yet about me clings,
As I had hearkened half-told things;
And better than the words make plain
I seem to know these lovers twain. 
Let us go hence, lest there should fall
Something that yet should mar it all.