Verse > Anthologies > > Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. > The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse
Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp.  The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse.  1922.
Lord Vyet
By Arthur Christopher Benson (1862–1925)
WHAT, must my lord be gone?
  Command his horse, and call
  The servants, one and all.
‘Nay, nay, I go alone.’
My Lord, I shall unfold        5
  Thy cloak of sables rare
  To shield thee from the air:
‘Nay, nay, I must be cold.’
At least thy leech I’ll tell
  Some drowsy draught to make,        10
  Less thou should toss awake.
‘Nay, nay, I shall sleep well.’
My lady keeps her bower:—
  I hear the lute delight
  The dark and frozen night.        15
High up within the tower.
Wilt thou that she descend?
  Thy son is in the hall,
  Tossing his golden ball,
Shall he my lord attend?        20
‘Nay, sirs, unbar the door,
  The broken lute shall fall;
  My son will leave his ball
To tarnish on the floor.’
Yon bell to triumph rings!        25
  To greet thee, monarchs wait
  Beside their palace gate.
‘Yes, I shall sleep with kings.’
My lord will soon alight
  With some rich prince, his friend,        30
  Who shall his ease attend.
‘I shall lodge low to-night.’
My lord hath lodging nigh?
  ‘Yes, yes, I go not far,—
  And yet the furthest star        35
Is not so far as I.’

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