9 ONE END OF LOVE

It is long since we met,—she said. I answered,—Yes. She is not fair, But very old now, and no gold Gleams in that scant gray withered hair Where once much gold was: and, I think. Not easily might one bring tears Into her eyes, which have become Like dusty glass. ’Tis thirty years, I said.—And then the war came on Apace, and our young King had need Of men to serve him oversea Against the heathen. For their greed, Puffed up at Tunis, troubles him— She said:—This week my son is gone To him at Paris with his men. And then:—You never married, John? I answered,—No. And so we sate Musing a while. Then with his guests Came Robert; and his thin voice broke Upon my dream, with the old jests, No food for laughter now; and swore We must be friends now that our feud Was overpast. We are grown old,— Eh, John?—he said. And, by the Rood! ’Tis time we were at peace with God Who are not long for this world. —Yea, I answered;—we are old. And then, Remembering that April day At Calais, and that hawthorn field Wherein we fought long since, I said:— We are friends now. And she sate by, Scarce heeding. Thus the evening sped. And we ride homeward now, and I Ride moodily: my palfrey jogs Along a rock-strewn way the moon Lights up for us; yonder the bogs Are curdled with thin ice; the trees Are naked; from the barren wold The wind comes like a blade aslant Across a world grown very old.