With the rain of the early night sweeping across them. 
Nought slept I that night, yet I saw her without sleeping:—­
Betwixt midnight and morn of that summer-tide was I
Amidst of the lilies by her house-door to hearken
If perchance in her chamber she turned amid sleeping: 
When lo, as the East ’gan to change, and stars faded
Were her feet on the stairs, and the door opened softly,
And she stood on the threshold with the eyes of one seeking,
And there, gathering the folds of her gown to her girdle,
Went forth through the garden and followed the highway,
All along the green valley, and I ever beside her,
Till the light of the low sun just risen was falling
On her feet in the first of the pass—­and all faded. 
Yet from her unto me had gone forth her intent,
And I saw her face set to the heart of that city,
And the quays where the ships of the outlanders come to,
And I said:  She is seeking, and shall I not seek? 
The sea is her prison wall; where is my prison? 
—­Yet I said:  Here men praise me, perchance men may love me
If I live long enough for my justice and mercy
To make them just and merciful—­one who is master
Of many poor folk, a man pity moveth
Love hath dealt with in this wise, no minstrel nor dreamer. 
The deeds that my hand might find for the doing
Did desire undo them these four years of fight? 
And now time and fair peace in my heart have begotten
More desire and more pain, is the day of deeds done with? 
Lo here for my part my bonds and my prison!—­
Then with hands holding praise, yet with fierce heart belike
Did I turn to the people that I had delivered—­
And the deeds of this year passed shall live peradventure! 
But now came no solace of dreams in the night-tide
From that day thenceforward; yet oft in the council,
Mid the hearkening folk craving for justice or mercy,
Mid the righting of wrongs and the staying of ruin,
Mid the ruling a dull folk, who deemed all my kingship
A thing due and easy as the dawning and sunset
To the day that God made once to deal with no further—­
—­Mid all these a fair face, a sad face, could I fashion,
And I said, She is seeking, and shall I not seek? 
—­Tell over the days of the year of hope’s waning;
Tell over the hours of the weary days wearing: 
Tell over the minutes of the hours of thy waking,
Then wonder he liveth who fails of his longing!

MASTER OLIVER

What wouldst thou have, son, wherein I might help thee?

KING PHARAMOND