Poems (Hardy)/The romance of a clod
THE ROMANCE OF A CLOD
"I SEND you here,"—with his own hand he wrote,—"From this far land wherein I journey with my knights,A golden gift. Care for it, I pray you, Sweet,With that same love you wait my coming hence."
Then to her inmost secret room the QueenRose-red with joy, yet stately, as a queenBefitted, went that none might see her heart;Unlaced the silken wrap and on the sealLet fond eyes rest, ere she the gift would see,The open box of jeweled gold; and lo,A lump of earth, a dry, unyielding clod,And nothing more! A far-brought gift, a king'sUnto his queen! A clod of earth—a queen!
Pale grew the queen, and reddening wrathfullyShe wept, sweeping aside her falling hairThat dared its gold against her girdle's goldAt lowest length let down.At lowest length let down."Some evil tongueHath slandered me. And now he loves me not;Alas, what must I do? O lover—king,My heart is true to you,—is true to you.'Her tears fell fast upon the hateful clod,That yet was dear that he had sent it,Though, indeed, in hate.Though, indeed, in hate.With face tear-dimmed,She pondered long, and then in twilight's dusk,A sad white shadow, sought the garden dear,That one fair spot of his and hers where noneDare come, and near a willow-pool she stooped68 And hid it in the earth with tears; with tearsThat might have crumbled kinder clods, not this.And thus, the insult hid, she lived, nor spokeTo any of her grief, till he should come.
And on a day of wide blue sky, and airLike inspiration, came the herald of the king,The king himself, in cloth of gold and pearl,And blue; a crowd of noble knights on steedsWith white manes lifting, falling like the mistsOf some white morning.Of some white morning.Down impetuous,Down sprang the king and clasped the queen nor markedHer stately coldness, but with joy led onAnd said, "My love, my only love, now showHow thou hast kept my gift. By this," he laughed,In over-joy,"¢it must be like my queen,In gold and white, yet not so sweet and fair.It shall my omen be, of love, of life with thee,And peace with all the world."And peace with all the world."Tumult of soulThe queen's faint heart made mute, while she led on,She scarce knew how or why, to where it lay,The hateful gift that made her grief. BeholdA regal flower of gold and white, of white and goldWith perfumed presence wide, above the graveHer hands had made in wrath of tears and shame!
"O love," she cried, "I did not understand!I did not understand! And I have wrongedIn thought,—O, not in heart, my king, for stillI loved you." On his breast she wept the taleUntil he lifted up her sorrowing faceInto the tender light of his own smile. Along by marble shapes at dusk they passedThrough garden lanes that led them to the courtWhere brave and beautiful awaited themWith joyful homage.With joyful homage.But nor marble shapeNor noble knight nor dame could touch the heartWith beauty like to theirs. A lily layIn white and gold upon her breast; her handUpon his arm; a glory as of lightFrom some supernal goodness in his faceShone full before them all.Shone full before them all.And yet the queenAt soul of all her joy bore one sad thought,"I did not understand! Ah, woe is mineThat I must say, 'I did not understand'When love was speaking." . . .