Piere Vidal Old

When I but think upon the great dead days And turn my mind upon that splendid madness, Lo! I do curse my strength And blame the sun his gladness; For that the one is dead And the red sun mocks my sadness. Behold me, Vidal, that was fool of fools! Swift as the king wolf was I and as strong When tall stags fled me through the alder brakes, And every jongleur knew me in his song, And the hounds fled and the deer fled And none fled over long. Even the grey pack knew me and knew fear. God! how the swiftest hind's blood spurted hot Over the sharpened teeth and purpling lips! Hot was that hind's blood yet it scorched me not As did first scorn, then lips of the Penautier! Aye ye are fools, if ye think time can blot From Piere Vidal’s remembrance that blue night. God! but the purple of the sky was deep! Clear, deep, translucent, so the stars me seemed Set deep in crystal; and because my sleep Rare visitor came not, the Saints I guerdon For that restlessness Piere set to keep One more fool's vigil with the hollyhocks. Swift came the Loba, as a branch that's caught, Torn, green and silent in the swollen Rhone, Green was her mantle, close, and wrought Of some thin silk stuff that's scarce stuff at all, But like a mist wherethrough her white form fought, And conquered! Ah God! conquered! Silent my mate came as the night was still. Speech? Words? Faugh! Who talks of words and love?! Hot is such love and silent, Silent as fate is, and as strong until It faints in taking and in giving all. Stark, keen, triumphant, till it plays at death. God! she was white then, splendid as some tomb High wrought of marble, and the panting breath Ceased utterly. Well, then I waited, drew, Half-sheathed, then naked from its saffron sheath Drew full this dagger that doth tremble here. Just then she woke and mocked the less keen blade. Ah God, the Loba! and my only mate! Was there such flesh made ever and unmade! God curse the years that turn such women grey! Behold here Vidal, that was hunted, flayed, Shamed and yet bowed not and that won at last. And yet I curse the sun for his red gladness, I that have known strath, garth, brake, dale, And every run-away of the wood through that great madness, Behold me shrivelled as an old oak's trunk And made men's mock'ry in my rotten sadness! No man hath heard the glory of my days: No man hath dared and won his dare as I: One night, one body and one welding flame! What do ye own, ye niggards! that can buy Such glory of the earth? Or who will win Such battle-guerdon with his 'prowesse high' ? O age gone lax! O stunted followers, That mask at passions and desire desires, Behold me shrivelled, and your mock of mocks; And yet I mock you by the mighty fires That burnt me to this ash. Ah! Cabaret! Ah Cabaret, thy hills again! Take your hands off me! . . . [Sniffing the air. Ha! this scent is hot!