There is a lady queen that dwells
In the green midmost of the vales,
Under the faery fells:
She hath five singers, O fairer than asphodels!
And a teller of tales.
The five singers are passing young;
Harvests, and mists of magic years,
And the clear throstle’s tongue
That in the same thicket for seven summers hath sung,
These are their only peers;
Mayhap with voices of the shore,
Embroidery of the sea’s one sigh,
The listener weepeth sore,
For his estate, that lacketh tuneful lore,
As the song paceth by.
Yea, but the teller of tales is old.
Less fair is he, but comforteth.
When thou art sore acold
Sit by him on the hearth, to be made hot and bold,
And to laugh at thy death:
This is thy mortal fashioning.
Think ye the queen, hight Melilote,
Weepeth to hear them sing,
These five, and laugheth with an outworn thing
Clad in a greasy coat?
1917.