Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The TroubadourMadison Cawein
N
And at night he met his end
In the woods of Trebizend.
Down the darkness of the road,
Where my lord seemed some huge toad.
At each bend of road he turned,
Or where wild the torrent churned.
From the bush as by he fared;
But he never looked or cared.
Lay upon his heart’s repose
With what thoughts of her—who knows?
But to sing a simple song—
“I have loved you, loved you long.”
Gave a rose and looked moist-eyed,
And forgot she was a bride.
I was of his robber bands:
Love should perish at our hands.
Nevermore of love and spring,
Or of any gentle thing.
To my lady’s forest bower,
We were hidden near the tower.
There he met an evil end:
Night, you know, is no man’s friend.
Borne for years a stainless shield,
And in strength to none would yield.
Bound and hung and stripped him bare;
Left him to the wild boars there.
But she often sits alone,
Weeping when my lord is gone.
In the woods of Trebizend
There he met an evil end.
While my lady—each one sees—
Waits, and keeps her memories.