Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/289

 "Are you to let me go again sometime," She said, "before I starve to death, I wonder ? If not, I'll have to bite the lion's paws, And make him roar. He cannot shake his mane, For now the lion has no mane to shake; The lion hardly knows himself without it, And thinks he has no face, but there's a lady Who says he had no face until he lost it. So there we are. And there's a flute somewhere, Playing a strange old tune. You know the words: 'The Lion and the Lady are both hungry.' " Fatigue and hunger tempered leisurely With food that some devout magician's oven Might after many failures have delivered, And wine that had for decades in the dark Of Merlin's grave been slowly quickening, And with half-heard, dream-weaving interludes Of distant flutes and viols, made more distant By far, nostalgic hautboys blown from nowhere, Were tempered not so leisurely, may be, With Vivian's inextinguishable eyes Between two shining silver candlesticks That lifted each a trembling flame to make The rest of her a dusky loveliness Against a bank of shadow. Merlin made, As well as he was able while he ate, A fair division of the fealty due To food and beauty, albeit more times than one Was he at odds with his urbanity In honoring too long the grosser viand. "The best invention in Broceliande Has not been over-taxed in vain, I see," She told him, with her chin propped on her fingers And her eyes flashing blindness into his :