Poems (Scudder)/Marie de France

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MARIE DE FRANCE
Of you, brave poetess, we've nothing more  Than name and songs, and yet, I'm sure of you— A lonely, gallant spirit who all through A wandering life in costly silence bore With music and with laughter broidered o'er.  Her heart as that sad lady of the tale  Wrapped the crushed body of her nightingale In silk close-stitched with gules and vert and or. And though you've left us many a dainty lay  Fresh as the branch of honeysuckle tossed By faithful Tristram on the dusty way  To warn Isolda he whom she loved most Was close at hand; in this our dusty day  Your keen and fragrant spirit's needed most.

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