I
Rondels of old French ivory to-day
(Poor perished beauty's deathless mirror-cases!)
Reveal to me the delicate amorous play
Of reed-like flowering folk with pointed faces.
Lovers ride hawking; over chess delight;
The Castle of Ladies renders up its keys,
Its roses all being flung; a gracious knight
Kneels to his garlander mid orchard-trees.
Passionate pilgrims, do ye keep so fast
Your dream of miracles and heights? Ah, shent
And sore-bewildered shall ye couch at last
In bitter beds of disillusionment.
In the Black Orchard the foul raven grieves
White Love, on some Montfauçon of the thieves.