A Disappointed Troubadour

Were I an ancient troubadour,

Whose wont it was to go and pour

Beneath a latticed window high

A lovelorn, passioned lullabye

To some fair maid mediaeval,

Who craned her head out through the wall

To courage me, it would have been

A joy, I think, to have sailed in

And twanged the strings both fierce and long,

And raised my voice in thrilling song;

To so cut loose from all restraint

As would have blistered all the paint

On that side of the castle, and

Have made her reach her lily hand

And toss me kisses on the wind,

And cause the felines out behind

The donjon to shut off their cries

And listen me extemporize.

To’ve lifted up my voice and sung

Until the very stars had swung

All rhythmically into line

And danced to every tune of mine!

To just tear loose—loose every band—

And open up, you understand,

As if the whole wide world did hang

On very quaver that I sang,

And I must sing to send afar

My voice where far-off islands are!

And I could do it; I could go,

“Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-OH!”

Until the whole wide world should swim

In melody up to the rim!

Inspired by beauty—beauty’s eyes,

And beauty’s hair and hands and sighs—

Oh, had I been troubadour,

I should have waked those days or yore.

But—could I?  Maidens sweet, I wis,

Those days were not like maids of this;

They did not, were not, could not be

As sweet as maidens now who knee

Tall, dew-wet, nodding blooms aside

And walk the meadows glorified!

Ah, no, I never could at all

Have praised the maid mediaeval

As I could praise maids of today,

Whose laughing, lilting, joyous way

Of taking life doth fairly sing

Along my heart’s each passioned string!

Rather the thought of maids to come

My every accent had made dumb;

Till I had gone, despite love’s sighs,

And size and smiles, and coaxing eyes,

And left sharps, quavers, and eke flats,

To night’s impassioned, prowling cats.

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