Chapter IX: The Medieval Mirror-Cases

I

Rondels of old French ivory to-day (Poor perished beauty's deathless mirror-cases!) Reveal to me the delicate amorous play Of reed-like flowering folk with pointed faces. Lovers ride hawking; over chess delight; The Castle of Ladies renders up its keys, Its roses all being flung; a gracious knight Kneels to his garlander mid orchard-trees. Passionate pilgrims, do ye keep so fast Your dream of miracles and heights? Ah, shent And sore-bewildered shall ye couch at last In bitter beds of disillusionment. In the Black Orchard the foul raven grieves White Love, on some Montfauçon of the thieves.