POSTHUMOUS POEMS
No witness of that devil's assurance made
Between our masters, that strong bond that holds
Treason each side—no empress of this mould,
But just the lady we had just to serve,
Live by or die for—oh, not when she bade
But when God thought she might have need of him
Tancred's own blood, the king's own very flesh
Made for our sakes so beautiful and weak
That we might even help God by serving her—
The maiden face more gracious than was need
To keep it perfect-—yea, more love in the lip
Than what sufficed us to accredit her
As only Constance, more repose i' the eyes
Than had alone constrained her worship out—
For certes no man ever wondered much
Why she wants worship! (to complete her, say)
And what were love's work? yea, thus verily
God wrought her with good cunning; and our part
Was to be patient—some day this might end,
She might pray God to find us room, suppose—
So many as we were, and such poor blood
As this might wash her floored palace clean—
I talk that old way! See how pale she is,
Her eyes more narrow, and with shallow lights
Filling them, broken hints of purposes,
How pain has worn the golden secret out
Between our masters, that strong bond that holds
Treason each side—no empress of this mould,
But just the lady we had just to serve,
Live by or die for—oh, not when she bade
But when God thought she might have need of him
Tancred's own blood, the king's own very flesh
Made for our sakes so beautiful and weak
That we might even help God by serving her—
The maiden face more gracious than was need
To keep it perfect-—yea, more love in the lip
Than what sufficed us to accredit her
As only Constance, more repose i' the eyes
Than had alone constrained her worship out—
For certes no man ever wondered much
Why she wants worship! (to complete her, say)
And what were love's work? yea, thus verily
God wrought her with good cunning; and our part
Was to be patient—some day this might end,
She might pray God to find us room, suppose—
So many as we were, and such poor blood
As this might wash her floored palace clean—
I talk that old way! See how pale she is,
Her eyes more narrow, and with shallow lights
Filling them, broken hints of purposes,
How pain has worn the golden secret out
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