Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/105

 Alas! to these men only grace, to these, Lord, whom thy love draws Godward, to thy knees— I, can I draw thee me-ward, can I seek, Who love thee not, to love me? seeing how weak, Lord, all this little love I bear thee is, And how much is my strong love more than this, My love that I love man with, that I bear Him sinning through me sinning? wilt thou care, God, for this love, if love be any, alas, In me to give thee, though long since there was, How long, when I too, Lord, was clean, even I, That now am unclean till the day I die— Haply by burning, harlot-fashion, made A horror in all hearts of wife and maid, Hateful, not knowing if ever in these mine eyes Shone any light of thine in any wise Or this were love at all that I bore thee?' And the night spake, and thundered on the sea, Ravening aloud for ruin of lives: and all The bastions of the main cliff's northward wall Rang response out from all their deepening length, As the east wind girded up his godlike strength And hurled in hard against that high-towered hold The fleeces of the flock that knows no fold, The rent white shreds of shattering storm: but she Heard not nor heeded wind or storming sea, Knew not if night were mild or mad with wind. 'Yea, though deep lips and tender hair be thinned, Though cheek wither, brow fade, and bosom wane, Shall I change also from this heart again