As to have cast away thy worth
In pity for my lowly birth.
XXIX.
“You had been welcome stricken down
By wrath of man and fortune’s frown,
In scorn of pomp or pelf.
But further, for thy wisdom, hear—
Love hath no time to doubt or fear
Its object or itself;
In faithful service Love can live,
Certain of what it has to give.
XXX.
“Nay, Gawain. Love must ever be
Blind in its own sufficiency,
Its creed is to aspire;
And hadst thou honoured my pure name
Thou wouldst have pardoned me the shame
Of this forlorn attire:
Love cannot stoop so, to despise
The thing its nature magnifies.
XXXI.
“Love is not love when disallied
From the white amulet of pride,—
’Tis proud in its degree;
In pity to my lowly birth,
Thou wouldst have honoured thine own worth
Hadst thou but honoured me;
And thus, thou lovest me not.” “O stay!”
But pale Maid Avoraine fled away.
XXXII.
Gnawing his ragged beard in wrath,
Sir Gawain took the summer path
Back to the haunts of men;
With stubborn heart and fretful spleen,
Thro’ yellow meadows of wheat and bean,
He journeyed back again—
Sick with the world, for in his brain
Sharp conscience jangled like a chain.
XXXIII.
“Lo, I have put her to the test!
Her heart is hollow as the rest,
And I am sadly wise;
I was a fool and I am chid,—
Her hollow falsehood lifts the lid
Of folly from mine eyes—
Once more I in my sword shall find
A charm against all womankind.”
XXXIV.
But when Sir Gawain left the spot,
She put the pale forget-me-not
Into her hair again:
“’Tis fading now, no matter why,
But I will wear it till I die,”
Said pale Maid Avoraine—
And thus she wore it, hour by hour,
Till both were faded, maid and flower.
XXXV.
She said, “The love I bore and bear
Is like the pale flower in my hair,
And hath as sad a dower;
For though it fade and in the spring
Become a miserable thing,
The flower is still a flower;
It is a flower, though bloom hath fled,
And Love is Love, though hope be dead.”
