_Song Of The Women._

FLORENCE FARR.

May this fire have driven out The shape-changers that can put Ruin on a great king’s house, Until all be ruinous. Names whereby a man has known The threshold and the hearthstone, Gather on the wind and drive Women none can kiss and thrive, For they are but whirling wind, Out of memory and mind. They would make a prince decay With light images of clay Planted in the running wave; Or for many shapes they have, They would change them into hounds Until he had died of his wounds Though the change were but a whim; Or they’d hurl a spell at him, That he follow with desire Bodies that can never tire Or grow kind, for they anoint All their bodies joint by joint With a miracle-working juice That is made out of the grease Of the ungoverned unicorn; But the man is thrice forlorn Emptied, ruined, wracked, and lost, That they follow, for at most They will give him kiss for kiss While they murmur “After this Hatred may be sweet to the taste;” Those wild hands that have embraced All his body can but shove At the burning wheel of love Till the side of hate comes up. Therefore in this ancient cup May the sword-blades drink their fill Of the home-brew there, until They will have for master none But the threshold and hearthstone.

THE FOOL’S SONG.—II.

FLORENCE FARR.

When you were an acorn on the tree top, Then was I an eagle-cock; Now that you are a withered old block, Still am I an eagle-cock.

DEIRDRE.

MUSICIANS’ SONG.—I.

FLORENCE FARR.

First Musician.

“Why is it,” Queen Edain said, “If I do but climb the stair To the tower overhead When the winds are calling there, Or the gannets calling out, In waste places of the sky, There is so much to think about, That I cry, that I cry?”

Second Musician.

But her goodman answered her: “Love would be a thing of naught Had not all his limbs a stir Born out of immoderate thought. Were he any thing by half, Were his measure running dry, Lovers, if they may not laugh, Have to cry, have to cry.”

The Three Musicians together.

But is Edain worth a song Now the hunt begins anew? Praise the beautiful and strong; Praise the redness of the yew; Praise the blossoming apple-stem. But our silence had been wise. What is all our praise to them That have one another’s eyes?

DEIRDRE.

MUSICIANS’ SONG.—II.

FLORENCE FARR.

Love is an immoderate thing And can never be content Till it dip an ageing wing, Where some laughing element Leaps and Time’s old lanthorn dims. What’s the merit in love-play, In the tumult of the limbs That dies out before ’tis day, Heart on heart or mouth on mouth All that mingling of our breath, When love-longing is but drouth For the things that follow death?

MUSICIANS’ SONG.—III.

FLORENCE FARR.

First Musician.

They are gone, they are gone The proud may lie by the proud.

Second Musician.

Though we were bidden to sing, cry nothing Loud.

First Musician.

They are gone, they are gone.

Second Musician.

Whispering were enough.

First Musician.

Into the secret wilderness of their love.

Second Musician.

A high grey cairn. What more to be said?

First Musician.

Eagles have gone into their cloudy bed.

DEIRDRE.

MUSICIANS’ SONG.—III.

SARAH ALLGOOD.