Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall (Марджори Пиктхолл)
Fame
HAVE I played fellowship with night, to see The allied armies break our gates at dawn And let our general in ? By Bacchus, no ! I have not left my stall, sir, I'm too poor For lazy prentices to hand my wares,? Such delicate chains, like amber linked with love ! Such silvered pins, like hate to let love out !? What know I ? But my Guidarello went To the fountain of the coppersmiths, when first The double cypress showed upon the east. He's home, poor fool, hoarse as a moulting bird From loud throat-loyalty. 'The banners burn Still in my soul,' he cries, 'as then in air. The gray air, the gray houses, and the flowers, The flowers, my father! Thyme and twisted sweets From the blue hills I dream of, and thin bells Of faery folds; pomegranates spun in flame, Flame of red rose and golden, flame of sound Blown from hot-throated trumpets, and the flame Of her proud eyes !? She rode beside the duke In velvet coloured as a pansy is And threaded round with gold. Her mantle strained On the warm wind behind her, golden too, Gold as the spires of lilies, and her hair And her dark eyes were danced across with gold.' Gold, gold, poor fool, and she was bought for gold, A golden grief to ride at a duke's rein. Eh well ! The great grow love-in-idleness About their courts. Did Guidarello see Our general too ? 'A little, tired old man, Clad in worn sables with a silver star,' He told me, 'fain to find his house and sleep.'
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