As some great lord of acres when a thief
    Steals from his park some flower he never sees,
  Calls it a lily fair beyond belief,
    Prisons the wretch, and fines before he frees;
    Such jealous madness did Lanciotto seize: 
  All in an instant is Francesca dear,
    He claims the wife he never cared to please,
  All in an instant seems his castle near,—­
And those poor lovers sleep, forgot at last their fear.

  His horse left steaming at his journey’s end,
    Up through his palace stairs with springing tread
  He strode; the silence met him like a friend,
    Fain to dissuade him from that deed of dread,
    Making a breeze about his burning head,
  Laying large hands of comfort on his soul;
    Within the ashes of his cheek burned red
  A long-shut rose of youth, as to the goal
Of death he sped, as once to love’s own tryst he stole.

  He caught a sound as of a rose’s breath,
    He caught another breath of deeper lung,
  Rose-leaves and oak-leaves on the wind of death;
    He drew aside the arras where they clung
    In the dim light, so lovely and so young—­
  They lay in sin as in a cradle there,
    Twin babes that in one bosom nestling hung: 
  Even Lanciotto paused, ah, will he spare? 
Who could not quite forgive a wrong that is so fair!

  The grave old clock ticked somewhere in the gloom,
    A dozen waiting seconds rose and fell
  Ere his pale dagger flickered in the room,
    Then quenched its corpse-light in their bosoms’ swell—­
    ‘Thus, dears, I mate you evermore in hell.’ 
  Their blood ran warm about them and they sighed
    For the mad smiter did his work too well,
  Just drew together softly and so died,
Fell very still and strange, and moved not side by side.

  Yea, moved not, though two hours he watched the twain
    And heard their blood drip drip upon the floor,
  Twice with stern voice he spake to them again,
    And then, a little tenderly, once more,—­
    ‘Thus, dears, in hell I mate you evermore.’ 
  And when the curious fingers of the day
    Unravelled all the dark, and morning wore,
  And the young light played round them where they lay,
The souls were many leagues upon the hellward way.

YOUNG LOVE

N.B.—­This sequence of poems has appeared in former editions under the title of ‘Love Platonic.’

I

1
Surely at last, O Lady, the sweet moon
   That bringeth in the happy singing weather
Groweth to pearly queendom, and full soon
   Shall Love and Song go hand in hand together;
For all the pain that all too long hath waited
   In deep dumb darkness shall have speech at last,
And the bright babe Death gave the Love he mated
   Shall leap to light and kiss the weeping past.