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

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,

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.

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?

‘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!

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,

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

Is not so far as I.’