Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/139

 Thy sign that all men seeing may speak thee just, Thy word which turns the strengths of sin to dust, Thy blast which burns up towers and thrones with fire. Lord, is this gift, this grace that I require, So great a gift, Lord, for thy grace to give And bid me bear thy part retributive? That I whom scorn makes mouths at, I might be Thy witness if loud sin may mock at thee? For lo, my life is as a barren ear Plucked from the sheaf: dark days drive past me here Downtrodden, while joy's reapers pile their sheaves, A thing more vile than autumn's weariest leaves, For these the sun filled once with sap of life. O thou my lord that hadst me to thy wife, Dost thou not fear at all, remembering me, The love that bowed my whole soul down to thee? Is this so wholly nought for man to dread, Man, whose life walks between the quick and dead, Naked, and warred about with wind and sea, That one should love and hate as I do thee? That one should live in all the world his foe So mortal as the hate that loves him so? Nought, is it nought, O husband, O my knight, O strong man and indomitable in fight, That one more weak than foam-bells on the sea Should have in heart such thoughts as I of thee? Thou art bound about with stately strengths for bands: What strength shall keep thee from my strengthless hands?