White Magic Studio

verdurous-glooms:

While the willow its green leaves sank,
I watched the white swan from the bank;
And gentlest winds upon the air
Ruffled through my beard and hair.

The sight of the castle there below
Was loveliest, with walls arow,
And floating banners blue and green:
The finest colours ever seen

To float from the tall grey towers
Of that House of Golden Hours;
Within I heard the sweet man say,
‘Ah! mon cœur pour les heures dorés!’

The white swan glided to its mate;
Now golden hours were growing late
And, darkening, lost their gilded gleam,
Like armour rusting in a stream

From a poor knight who falls in death,
Half in the water, lost of breath;
So at the lowering of the night,
I turned away and took to flight.

Was it at all within my powers
To enter that House of Golden Hours?
Sometimes I dreamt to near the wall
Where rose the drawbridge; there to call,–

‘Open! open! for the day’s not long;
I swear to Our Lord I mean no wrong
In coming here, for my Love’s within:
If love is love, then I have no sin.’

At which I dreamt the banners curled,
No longer by the winds unfurled,
But hanging still against the skies,
Blue and green before my eyes —

Whereat there splashed the swan of white
Into the water from a height,
A scarlet arrow in its breast;
Five were the grey eggs in its nest.

Perchance the willow wept for me,
Because it knew I may not see
Inside that House of Golden Hours;
But in the shade of its tall towers

To linger, with a desperate thought
Of how a passage-way to wrought,
Though it be long ways past the noon
And darkness draweth near me soon.

In springtime will the white swan glide;
Might then the drawbridge open wide
And bid me enter its good grace,
To a fair wallèd garden-place?

Red rosebuds tumble in the breeze,
Close round the lovers met with ease;
To me then might the sweet man say,
‘Ah! mon cœur pour les heures dorés!’