Ballade of Might-Be
Young Love flies fast, on wavering wing,
Full fast he flies for woe or weal,
And some do bear his grievous sting
Too deep for any leech to heal;
I scorn to swell their sad appeal,
False phantom, fled from our embrace!
And yet—I doubt me I might kneel
Should you but chance to turn your face.
Of days long done our praises ring
Right loud and full, a valorous peal,
For life was then a lusty thing:
Ah! then were mighty blows to deal.
Brave days, my masters!—still, I feel
In sooth I could not deem him base
Who’d shun your stare, O age of steel!
Should you but chance to turn your face.
“Alas!” our dainty minstrels sing,
“That sorrow sets unbroken seal
On saint and sinner, clown and king.”
They beg death’s boon with busy zeal.
They’ll do you homage warm and leal,
Death! while you pass their dwelling-place
But lips would gape and senses reel,
Should you but chance to turn your face.
Envoy.
Queen Fortune! of the mystic wheel,
We bow to find you full of grace,
We would not turn on sullen heel
Should you but chance to turn your face.
Graham R. Tomson.