Poem by William Watson

The Lute-Player

She was a lady great and splendid,
  I was a minstrel in her halls.
A warrior like a prince attended
  Stayed his steed by the castle walls.

Far had he fared to gaze upon her.
  "O rest thee now, Sir Knight," she said.
The warrior wooed, the warrior won her,
  In time of snowdrops they were wed.
I made sweet music in his honour,
  And longed to strike him dead.

I passed at midnight from her portal,
  Throughout the world till death I rove:
Ah, let me make this lute immortal
  With rapture of my hate and love!

1. Lux Perdita
2. On Exaggerated Deference to Foreign Literary Opinion
3. Life without Health
4. Scentless Flow'rs I Bring Thee
5. The Glimpse

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