Rondeau Redoublé
I will go hence, and seek her, my old Love;
All bramble-laced, and moss-grown is the way,
There is no sun, nor broad, red moon above,
The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.
The rose-wreaths fade, the viols are not gay,
That which seemed sweet doth passing bitter prove;
So sweet she was, she will not say me nay—
I will go hence and seek her, my old Love.
Low, labouring sighs stirred coldly through the grove,
Where buds unblossomed on the mosses lay;
His upraised hands the dusky tangle clove,
“All bramble-laced and moss-grown is the way!”
With grievous eyes, and lips that smiled alway,
Strange, flitting shapes, wreathed round him as he strove
Their spectral arms, and filmy green array;
There was no sun, nor broad red moon above.
Here lies her lute—and here her slender glove;
(Her bower well won, sweet joy shall crown the day);
But her he saw not, vanished was his Love,
The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.
The wrong was mine! he cried. I left my dove
(He flung him down upon the weeping clay),
And now I find her flown—ah wellaway!
The house is desolate that held my Love,
I will go hence.
Graham R. Tomson.