Sorcery

Go on your way, and let me pass.
You stop a wild despair.
I would that I were turned to brass
Like that chained lion there,

Which, couchant by the postern gates
In weather foul or fair,
Looks down serenely desolate,
And nothing does but stare!

Ah, what's to me the burgeoned year,
The sad leaf or the gay?
Let Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
Their falcons fly this day.

'T will be as royal sport, pardie,
As falconers have tried
At Astolat—but let me be!
I would that I had died.

There was a woman in the glade:
Her hair was soft and brown,
And long bent silken lashes weighed
Her ivory eyelids down.

I kissed her hand, I called her blest,
I held her leal and fair—
She turned to shadow on my breast,
And melted into air!

And, lo! about me, fold on fold,
A writhing serpent hung—
An eye of jet, a skin of gold,
A garnet for a tongue!

O, let the petted falcons fly
Right merry in the sun;
But let me be! for I shall die
Before the year is done.