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As leaves turn into flame at the frost’s touch,
So Richard’s heart on coldness fed its fire,
And burned with surfeit of indifference.
All flavor and complexion of content
Went out of life; what served once served no more.
His hound and falcon ceased to pleasure him;
He read–some musty folios there were
On shelf–but even in brave Froissart’s page,
Where, God knows, there be wounds enough, no herb
Nor potion found he to purge sadness with.
The gray dust gathered on the leaf unturned,
And then the spider drew his thread across.
Certain bright coins that he was used to count
With thrill at fingers’ ends uncounted lay,
Suddenly worthless, like the conjurer’s gold
That midst the jeers and laughter of the crowd
Turns into ashes in the rustic’s hand.
Soft idleness itself bore now a thorn
Two-pronged with meditation and desire.
The cold Griselda that would none of him!
The fair Griselda! Not alone by day,
With this most solid earth beneath his feet,
But in the weird and unsubstantial sphere
Of slumber did her beauty hold him thrall.
Herself of late he saw not; ‘t was a wraith
He worshipped, a vain shadow. Thus he pined
From dawn to dusk, and then from dusk to dawn,
Of that miraculous infection caught
From any-colored eyes, so they be sweet.
Strange that a man should let a maid’s slim foot
Stamp on his happiness and quench it quite!

With what snail-pace the traitor time creeps by
When one is out with fortune and undone!
how tauntingly upon the dial’s plate
The shadow’s finger points the dismal hour!
Thus Wyndham, with hands clasped behind his back,
Watching the languid and reluctant sun
Fade from the metal disk beside the door.
The hours hung heavy up there on the hill,
Where life was little various at best
And merriment had long since ta’en its flight.
Sometimes he sat and conned the flying clouds
Till on dusk’s bosom nestled her one star,
And spoke no word, nor seemed alive at all,
But a mere shape and counterfeit of life;
Or, urged by some swift hunger for green boughs,
Would bid the hound to heel, and disappear
Into the forest, with himself communing
For lack of gossip. So do lonely men
Make themselves tedious to their tedious selves.
Thus passed he once in a white blaze of noon
Under his oaks, and muttered as he went:

“‘My father’s daughter’ and ‘your father’s son’!
Faith, but it was a shrewd and nimble phrase,
And left me with no fitting word at tongue.
The wench hath wit and matter of her own,
And beauty, that doth seldom mate with wit,
Nature hath painted her a proper brown–
A russet-colored wench that knows her worth.
And mincing, too–should have her ruff propt up
With supertasses, like a dame at Court,
And go in cloth-of-gold. I’ll get a suit
Of Genoa velvet, and so take her eye.
Has she a heart? The ladies of Whitehall
Are not so skittish, else does Darrell lie
Most villainously. Often hath he said
The art of blushing ‘s a lost art at Court.
If so, good riddance! This one here lets love
Play beggar to her prudery, and starve,
Feeding him ever on looks turned aside.
To be so young, so fair, and wise withal!
Lets love starve? Nay, I think starves merely me.
For when was ever woman logical
Both day and night-time? Not since Adam fell!
I doubt a lover somewhere. What shrewd bee
Hath buzzed betimes about this clover-top?
Belike some scrivener’s clerk at Bideford,
With long goose-quill and inkhorn at his thigh–
Methinks I see the parchment face of him;
Or one of those swashbuckler Devon lads
That haunt the inn there, with red Spanish gold,
Rank scurvy knaves, ripe fruit for gallows-tree;
Or else the sexton’s son”–here Wyndham laughed,
Though not a man of mirth–indeed, a man
Of niggard humor; but that sexton’s son–
Lean as the shadow cast by a church spire,
Eyes deep in the sockets, noseless, high cheek-boned,
Like nothing in the circle of this earth
But a death’s-head that from a mural slab
Within the chancel leers through sermon-time,
Making a mock of poor mortality.
The fancy touched him, and he laughed a laugh
That from his noonday slumber roused an owl
Snug in his oaken hermitage hard by.
A very rare conceit–the sexton’s son!