James Branch Cabell

Yolande dit, en soupirant:

“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, irks him sore.”

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.