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.