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A poem by Amy Lowell |
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In A Castle |
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Title: In A Castle Author: Amy Lowell [More Titles by Lowell] I Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip--hiss--drip--hiss-- fall the raindrops on the oaken log which burns, and steams, and smokes the ceiling beams. Drip--hiss--the rain never stops.
How the log hisses and drips! How warm and satisfying will be her lips!
Is it guilt to free a lady from her palsied lord, absent and fighting, terribly abhorred?
Above, the coronet winks in the darkness. Drip--hiss--fall the raindrops. The arras blows out from the wall, and a door bangs in a far-off hall.
The rain claps on a loosened rafter. Is that laughter?
The state bed is very cold and he is alone. How far from the wall the arras is blown!
Drip--hiss--the rain drops.
The state bed shivers in the watery dawn. Drip--hiss--fall the raindrops. For the storm never stops. On the velvet coverlet lie two bodies, stripped and fair in the cold, grey air. Drip--hiss--fall the blood-drops, for the bleeding never stops. The bodies lie quietly. At each side of the bed, on the floor, is a head. A man's on this side, a woman's on that, and the red blood oozes along the rush mat. A wisp of paper is twisted carefully into the strands of the dead man's hair. It says, "My Lord: Your wife's paramour has paid with his life for the high favour." Through the lady's silver fillet is wound another paper. It reads, "Most noble Lord: Your wife's misdeeds are as a double-stranded necklace of beads. But I have engaged that, on your return, she shall welcome you here. She will not spurn your love as before, you have still the best part of her. Her blood was red, her body white, they will both be here for your delight. The soul inside was a lump of dirt, I have rid you of that with a spurt of my sword point. Good luck to your pleasure. She will be quite complaisant, my friend, I wager." The end was a splashed flourish of ink. Hark! In the passage is heard the clink of armour, the tread of a heavy man. The door bursts open and standing there, his thin hair wavering in the glare of steely daylight, is my Lord of Clair.
The velvet coverlet is sodden and wet, yet the roof beams are tight. Overhead, the coronet gleams with its blackened gold, winking and blinking. Among the rushes three corpses are growing cold.
In the castle church you may see them stand, Two sumptuous tombs on either hand Of the choir, my Lord's and my Lady's, grand In sculptured filigrees. And where the transepts of the church expand, A crusader, come from the Holy Land, Lies with crossed legs and embroidered band. The page's name became a brand For shame. He was buried in crawling sand, After having been burnt by royal command. [The end] GO TO TOP OF SCREEN |