D. L. SAYERS

Why do you come to the poet, to the heart of iron and fire, Seeking soft raiment and the small things of desire, Looking for light kisses from lips bowed to sing? Less than myself I give not, and am I a little thing? I walk in scarlet and sendal through the dry plains of hell, And fine gold and rubies are all I have to sell, For I am the royal goldsmith whose goods are all of gold, And you shall live for ever like a little tale that is told; When kings pass and perish and the dust covers their name, And the high, impregnable cities are only wind and flame, The insolent new nations shall rise and read, and know What a little, little lord you were, because I loved you so.

I sat and talked with you In the shifting fire and gloom, Making you answer due In delicate speech and smooth— Nor did I fail to note The black curve of your head And the golden skin of your throat On the cushion's golden-red. But all the while, behind, In the workshop of my mind, The weird weaver of doom Was walking to and fro, Drawing thread upon thread With resolute fingers slow Of the things you did not say And thought I did not know, Of the things you said to-day And had said long ago, To weave on a wondrous loom, In dim colours enough, A curious, stubborn stuff— The web that we call truth.

The hawthorn brave upon the green She hath a drooping smell and sad, But God put scent into the bean To drive each lass unto her lad. And woe betide the weary hour, For my love is in Normandy, And oh! the scent of the bean-flower Is like a burning fire in me. Fair fall the lusty thorn, She hath no curses at my hand, But would the man were never born That sowed the bean along his land!