Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/106

 98 As to have cast away thy worth

In pity for my lowly birth.

You had been welcome stricken down

By wrath of man and fortune’s frown,

In scorn of pomp or pelf.

But further, for thy wisdom, hear—

Love hath no time to doubt or fear

Its object or itself;

In faithful service Love can live,

Certain of what it has to give.

Nay, Gawain. Love must ever be

Blind in its own sufficiency,

Its creed is to aspire;

And hadst thou honoured my pure name

Thou wouldst have pardoned me the shame

Of this forlorn attire:

Love cannot stoop so, to despise

The thing its nature magnifies.

Love is not love when disallied

From the white amulet of pride,—

’Tis proud in its degree;

In pity to my lowly birth,

Thou wouldst have honoured thine own worth

Hadst thou but honoured me;

And thus, thou lovest me not.” “O stay!”

But pale Maid Avoraine fled away.

Gnawing his ragged beard in wrath,

Sir Gawain took the summer path

Back to the haunts of men;

With stubborn heart and fretful spleen,

Thro’ yellow meadows of wheat and bean,

He journeyed back again—

Sick with the world, for in his brain

Sharp conscience jangled like a chain.

Lo, I have put her to the test!

Her heart is hollow as the rest,

And I am sadly wise;

I was a fool and I am chid,—

Her hollow falsehood lifts the lid

Of folly from mine eyes—

Once more I in my sword shall find

A charm against all womankind.”

But when Sir Gawain left the spot,

She put the pale forget-me-not

Into her hair again:

But I will wear it till I die,”

Said pale Maid Avoraine—

And thus she wore it, hour by hour,

Till both were faded, maid and flower.

She said, “The love I bore and bear

Is like the pale flower in my hair,

And hath as sad a dower;

For though it fade and in the spring

Become a miserable thing,

The flower is still a flower;

It is a flower, though bloom hath fled,

And Love is Love, though hope be dead.”

 