If he be glad, if he be sad,
How should one question when the hand
Is full, the heart.  That life he had,
While leisure was aside may stand,
Till he shall overtake the task
Of every day, then let him ask
(If he remember—­if he will),
’When I could sit me down and muse,
And match my good against mine ill,
And weigh advantage dulled by use
At nothing, was it better with me?’
But Sigismund!  It cannot be
But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh,
A dreamer on a day gone by
The king is come.

XLIII.

His vassals two
Serve with all homage deep and due. 
He is contented, he doth find
Belike the kingdom much to his mind. 
And when the long months of his long
Reign are two years, and like a song
From some far sweeter world, a call
From the king’s mouth for fealty,
Buds soon to blossom in language fall,
They listen and find not any plea
Left, for fine chiding at destiny.

XLIV.

Sigismund hath ricked the hay,
He sitteth at close o’ a sultry day
Under his mulberry boughs at ease. 
’Hey for the world, and the world is wide,
The world is mine, and the world is—­these
Beautiful Malva leans at his side,
And the small babbler talks at his knees.

XLV.

Riseth a waft as of summer air,
Floating upon it what moveth there? 
Faint as the light of stars and wan
As snow at night when the moon is gone,
It is the white-witch risen once more.

XLVI.

The white-witch that tempted of yore
So utterly doth substance lack,
You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back. 
Soft her eyes, her speech full clear: 
’Hail, thou Sigismund my fere,
Bargain with me yea or nay. 
NAY, I go to my true place,
And no more thou seest my face. 
YEA, the good be all thine own,
For now will I advance thy day,
And yet will leave the night alone.

XLVII.

Sigismund makes answer ’NAY. 
Though the Highest heaped on me
Trouble, yet the same should be
Welcomer than weal from thee. 
Nay;—­for ever and ever Nay.’ 
O, the white-witch floats away. 
Look you, look!  A still pure smile
Blossoms on her mouth the while,
White wings peaked high behind,
Bear her;—­no, the wafting wind,
For they move not,—­floats her back,
Floats her up.  They scarce may track
Her swift rising, shot on high
Like a ray from the western sky,
Or a lark from some grey wold
Utterly whelm’d in sunset gold.

XLVIII.