Upon the river’s brink she stands
And tastes the dawn’s white breath.
She wrings her slender, silver hands,
“God’s curse on love,” she saith.
“Love binds me with his cruel bands
That break not save with death.”
“Now Geoffrey is a huntsman bold
And slays the mountain deer,
And Hugh plows up the fragrant mold
And plucks the ripened ear.
In friendship would these twain grow old
Did I not dwell anear.
“Hugh brings me grapes with sunlight sweet,
Like globes of amethyst,
While Geoffrey’s fawn with snowflake feet
Is corded to my wrist.
They mutter curses when they meet,
Their sight dims with red mist.
“And it is love hath done this thing;
Yea, Geoffrey loves my hair,
And Hugh lifts up his voice to sing
That my sad face is fair,
And love strews poison in the spring
And fouls the pleasant air.
“But not for my poor loveliness
Shall blood of brothers flow.
What is one woman, more or less?
And what is love but woe!
I want no murderer’s caress,
So for love’s sake—I go.”
Lads, sheathe your knives, no use to fight.
The lady you would wed
Shall sleep alone in state tonight
With candles at her head.
Lift, friends, this figure still and white
And bear her to her bed.