Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
Lord VyetArthur Christopher Benson (18621925)
W
Command his horse, and call
The servants, one and all.
‘Nay, nay, I go alone.’
Thy cloak of sables rare
To shield thee from the air:
‘Nay, nay, I must be cold.’
Some drowsy draught to make,
Less thou should toss awake.
‘Nay, nay, I shall sleep well.’
I hear the lute delight
The dark and frozen night.
High up within the tower.
Thy son is in the hall,
Tossing his golden ball,
Shall he my lord attend?
The broken lute shall fall;
My son will leave his ball
To tarnish on the floor.’
To greet thee, monarchs wait
Beside their palace gate.
‘Yes, I shall sleep with kings.’
With some rich prince, his friend,
Who shall his ease attend.
‘I shall lodge low to-night.’
‘Yes, yes, I go not far,—
And yet the furthest star
Is not so far as I.’