Droit du Seigneur

The Aspens shiver by the osier bed,The waters ripple in September's sunAmong the rushes, where I sit and dreamMy basket empty and my work undone.

I watch the spirals of blue smoke ariseAbove the green of oak and chestnut treeOnly one week of wistful wearinessBefore as custom bids, I go to thee.

But, wilt thou take thy right? My brother's wifeWent to the castle on her wedding-day,And when thou saw'st her shivering dissentDidst thou not say in kindness, "Go thy way,

"Untouched by me, even as thou hast come,Save in the way of gifts; take this and this."And she, poor little fool, rejoined her mate,Unharmed, unhonoured, even by a kiss.

Last week I saw her at her cottage doorNursing her clumsy child; no wistful sighFor what her peasant arms might yet have held,A child of thine,—broke her serenity.

Ah, if I knew how thou wilt deal with me.Who knows? who knows? They tell me I am fair,And any beauty that I may possessHave I not kept it for thy sake with care?

To guard a pallor that might blush for thee,Shading the sunrays from this face of mine,Smoothing my hands with milk from elder-flowersLest the rough skin should jar the silk of thine.

Ah, how I loved thee, even as a childWatching thee ride across the village square,The curls blown backwards from thy vivid faceThy pennons lifted on the summer air.

How I have envied brides who passed thy gates,And when I heard the village gossips sayThou wert not as thy fathers; oft refusedTo claim thy privilege, I turned away

So glad and yet so sad,—it well may beThey will not notice me, those eyes of thine;Yet surely love will find some soft appealTo draw their gaze to me, thy lips to mine.

My cousin loves me; in his kindly eyesLies the clear promise of a calm content.I, wedding him, ensure his happinessAs thou ensurest mine, shouldst thou consent.

Ah, if thou shouldst be kind and set thy sealOn me and mine for ever. Women knowThe secret ways of love and all its loreIf,—Ah, dear God in Heaven, if this were so!

My firstborn should be thine, then all my lifeWill, and must, keep the memory of thee.Even as thou art printed on my heart,So on my being must thy impress be.

No second lover and no second childEfface the imprint of the first who came,And on the golden sands of youth inscribedLightly, but so indelibly, his name.

Many a custom, many an old abuseThy people cherish still, unknown to thee;My cousin whispers me among the reeds,"What has the priest to do with thee and me?

"Let us forestall our marriage, thus thy childWill be thy husband's, not a lawless thingBorn of injustice." Ah, how blind men are,How strange their words of careless kindness ring.

It is the sweetest justice or our livesThat once, ere settling to our lifelong taskOf serving boors and raising sons to themOne golden moment, too divine to ask

In our most daring prayers, is flung to usBy our time honoured custom's strange decree,One perfect hour of radiant romanceIs lent to us; will it be lent to me?

Rarely men understand our way of love;How that to women in their wedding hoursLover and priest and king are blent in one,Hence the awed worship of these hearts of ours.

At times love for a little lifts the veilAnd men and women see each other's heart,But swiftly passion comes, obscuring all,And thus the nearing souls are swept apart.

To us love is a sacred rite; to menCustom, perhaps affection, or desire.Before we hold our lovers in our armsThey are too fiercely amorous to inquire.

And after too indifferent; thus our soulsRemain an unread chapter to the end,And those whose very life is blent with oursCannot be called with justice even friend.

Ah me, I dream and dream: my basket liesUnfilled beside me, while the aspens partTheir trembling leaves, and show the castle wallsThat rest my eyes and draw my anxious heart,

Because they hold its treasure. Ah, Seigneur,So loved, so longed for, passing strange it seemsThat I shall speak to thee, to whom I speakDaily in thought, and nightly through my dreams.

Thou may'st misunderstand. Excess of loveTakes the pale lips of coldness or of art.And yet my eyes must surely find some wayTo show the white heat burning at my heart!

Seigneur, not so dissimilar am IFrom thee and thine. Thou know'st thy father's ways,Ay, and his father's; much the castle bloodMixed with the village stream in former days.

Signs of more brilliant lineage than my ownMany have marked in me. Take heed of this;Find me not too unworthy of thine arms;These lips are thine knowing no other kiss.

Think; if thou givest me an hour's delightIt will be all my life will ever know.Seigneur, have pity on this love of mineAnd lend thyself to me before I go

Back to my narrow life. The whitest starMay let its pure and trembling beauty restIn the dim silver of the smallest pool;Wherefore not thou a moment on my breast?

I am thine own by immemorial right,Stoop thou and take that privilege of thine;An hour's dalliance in thy life. Seigneur,And an eternal memory in mine!