In Broceliande

by: T. W. Earp (Author)

from: Oxford Poetry (Pp. 19 - 20)  1916

In the midst of the forest of silence,
Where even the leaves are mute,
Where never a bird wanders,
She plays upon a lute.

With fingers gently passing,
She touches golden strings,
Till the trees almost remember
The long-departed wings,

And the knights and the gay ladies,
And the music that went before,
And the days of joy and passion.
They will find these things no more.

One plaintive lute recalling
The loud citoles and shawms,
She alone has not left them,
Of the beautiful, noble forms.

If she would cease from playing,
The people with hearts of stone
Would lead her from the forest,
And set her on a throne.

She would be bright with jewels,
She would sit crowned on high,
But if she left the forest,
Alas, the trees would die.

In the midst of the forest of silence,
Where even the leaves are mute,
Where never a bird wanders,
She plays upon a lute.