O surely this morning all sorrow is hidden,
  All battle is hushed for this even at least;
And no one this noontide may hunger, unbidden
  To the flowers and the singing and the joy of your feast
  Where silent ye sit midst the world’s tale increased.

Lo, the lovers unloved that draw nigh for your blessing! 
  For your tale makes the dreaming whereby yet they live
The dreams of the day with their hopes of redressing,
  The dreams of the night with the kisses they give,
  The dreams of the dawn wherein death and hope strive.

Ah, what shall we say then, but that earth threatened often
  Shall live on for ever that such things may be,
That the dry seed shall quicken, the hard earth shall soften,
  And the spring-bearing birds flutter north o’er the sea,
  That earth’s garden may bloom round my love’s feet and me?_

THE EMPEROR

Lo you, my sweet, fair folk are one and all
And with good grace their broidered robes do fall,
And sweet they sing indeed:  but he, the King,
Look but a little how his fingers cling
To her’s, his love that shall be in the play—­
His love that hath been surely ere to-day: 
And see, her wide soft eyes cast down at whiles
Are opened not to note the people’s smiles
But her love’s lips, and dreamily they stare
As though they sought the happy country, where
They two shall be alone, and the world dead.

THE EMPRESS

Most faithful eyes indeed look from the head
The sun has burnt, and wind and rain has beat,
Well may he find her slim brown fingers sweet. 
And he—­methinks he trembles, lest he find
That song of his not wholly to her mind. 
Note how his grey eyes look askance to see
Her bosom heaving with the melody
His heart loves well:  rough with the wind and rain
His cheek is, hollow with some ancient pain;
The sun has burned and blanched his crispy hair,
And over him hath swept a world of care
And left him careless, rugged, and her own;
Still fresh desired, still strange and new, though known.

THE EMPEROR

His eyes seem dreaming of the mysteries
Deep in the depths of her familiar eyes,
Tormenting and alluring; does he dream,
As I ofttime this morn, how they would seem
Loved but unloving?—­Nay the world’s too sweet
That we the ghost of such a pain should meet—­
Behold, she goes, and he too, turning round,
Remembers that his love must yet be found,
That he is King and loveless in this story
Wrought long ago for some dead poet’s glory.

[Exeunt players behind the curtain.

Enter before the curtain LOVE crowned as a King.

LOVE