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THE PLEASAUNCE OF MAID MARIAN

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Author Topic: THE PLEASAUNCE OF MAID MARIAN  (Read 331 times)
Victoria Liss
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« Reply #15 on: November 30, 2009, 03:12:21 am »

"False life! false love! Oh, why was I deceiv'd?
False heart! false love, that I, poor maid, believ'd!
False life! false love, that me of hope bereav'd!
                                    False heart, false love!

False lips! false tongue that spake false vows to me!
False face! false eyes, whence truth did turn and flee!
False hand! false heart that brake sweet love's decree!
                                    False life! false love!"
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Victoria Liss
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« Reply #16 on: November 30, 2009, 03:12:33 am »

But when the spring was nigh there came to her
A little comfort from the budding leaf,
As still she pac'd the pleasaunce sowing seeds
Of that strange plant, and year by year there bloom'd
Within it such a wilderness of branch
And flower and wandering vine as none had seen
The like. Now fifty tides of Martinmas
Were past and over when there came a gale
Fiercer than any on that wind-swept coast,
And in the night above the storm some heard
The song that ancient Marian sang at whiles
Of false love and false life, and hearing shook
With fear of some dread thing.
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Victoria Liss
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« Reply #17 on: November 30, 2009, 03:12:45 am »

                But those who stirr'd
Upon the morrow earliest beheld
Within the pleasaunce, on the tomb of him
All women lov'd, the dead maid Marian.
About her brows was wound a faded scarf
That dead Sir Tristram wore as knight of hers
Full sixty dusty summers back at some
Forgotten tourney held in Brittany,
And in her hand was claspt a golden chain
That he had given her, and some there were
Who held that death had made her fair again,
Working a miracle for very ruth.
So past her soul to judgment and its rest.
But when three days were past there stood ten maids
Arow within the pleasaunce strewing blooms
Of latest autumn on the tomb disturb'd
Once more to hold the dust of Marian.
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Victoria Liss
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« Reply #18 on: November 30, 2009, 03:12:57 am »


Full quickly glide the years, and none of all
Who knew that land in those dim days are left,
Yet still the pleasaunce shows an isle of green
Midmost of a wide, open, herbless space,
A desolate, waste country no man tills.
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