Rosie Gamgee
10-14-2004, 02:27 PM
Here's a wee bit of poetry I wrote. Tell me what you think.
I
Harken ye, to a story sad,
and weep ye now, ye gay and glad!
The Lay of Ardale is a dole tale;
they sat within a bright green vale-
a young soldier and his bright love-
while shrouded by dark clouds above
Estar’s sundered light was hidden,
and was darkened by grief unbidden.
‘Tis in that valley, fair and green,
the soldier, he must choose between
a summons to a battle-quest
or the bright girl he loves the best.
The thought that he and she must part
weighs heavily upon his heart,
but love for land, and duty cold
does not release him from its hold
and ‘though he knows his heart must break
his leave of her he now will take
while soft the breezes of grey morn
steal down the vale and shake the corn-
golden and green, that hedge around-
and gently fan the dew-wet ground.
Away I must ride, he said then,
and join the brave, united men;
ere the sun sets upon this day
from thou, my love, I must away.
The tears fell fast upon her face,
her ring she offered with all grace;
its shape was of a silver dove
With this, said she, take thou my love.
Always, love, whate’er betide!
And I wilt take thee for my bride
if e’er again I shall return
from this my quest so cold and stern.
II
Then about him her arms she cast;
and this deed was to be her last,
for as her tears he kissed away
and she begged him, For one hour, stay,
a band of trolls assailed the vale.
Their flaming arrows like bright hail
set alight the corn-hedge around,
they baying, all, like hunting hound
who, finding a fox in the field
would the thing to his master yield
and so shouts for joy with panting hot
because he found the thing he sought,
glorying more in kill than chase-
so they came with terrible pace
to where the lovers stood in tears.
Their howling pricked upon their ears.
The soldier then, without a word,
drawing, from out its sheath, his sword,
turned, seeking to defend his love.
Her token of the silver dove,
was shining there upon his hand,
and in the vale he made his stand
terrible, many trolls slaying,
quailing not at their fell baying.
But even as his foes retreat,
their baying now cries of defeat,
somewhere ‘midst them a bowstring sings;
her cry about the valley rings.
A rose, his love, pierced by a thorn;
down she fell upon that grey morn,
a great black arrow in her side,
and in his arms his bright love died.
III
Now blood for blood without remorse
he has taken of that fell force,
charging after their retreating,
slaying swiftly at each meeting,
as, in rage, he took them over
avenging for him his lover.
Now he has placed his love’s cold clay,
upon a drear and doleful day,
beneath a tall cairn in Ardale-
the Red Valley, that bloodstained vale.
And there about her stony grave,
where ‘round the corn shall ever wave
as long as breezes gently blow
down from the Craggy Mountains’ snow,
the soldier paces, lost in grief
from which his heart knows no relief,
rueful ever of her still rest
wishing with even his own breast
he might have stopped that deadly dart
that slew his bright love, tender heart;
and like the little gift of grace
from slender finger in that place
she bade him take on that fell morn,
that it should his own hand adorn,
the truest token of lost love
shall ever be a silver dove.
I
Harken ye, to a story sad,
and weep ye now, ye gay and glad!
The Lay of Ardale is a dole tale;
they sat within a bright green vale-
a young soldier and his bright love-
while shrouded by dark clouds above
Estar’s sundered light was hidden,
and was darkened by grief unbidden.
‘Tis in that valley, fair and green,
the soldier, he must choose between
a summons to a battle-quest
or the bright girl he loves the best.
The thought that he and she must part
weighs heavily upon his heart,
but love for land, and duty cold
does not release him from its hold
and ‘though he knows his heart must break
his leave of her he now will take
while soft the breezes of grey morn
steal down the vale and shake the corn-
golden and green, that hedge around-
and gently fan the dew-wet ground.
Away I must ride, he said then,
and join the brave, united men;
ere the sun sets upon this day
from thou, my love, I must away.
The tears fell fast upon her face,
her ring she offered with all grace;
its shape was of a silver dove
With this, said she, take thou my love.
Always, love, whate’er betide!
And I wilt take thee for my bride
if e’er again I shall return
from this my quest so cold and stern.
II
Then about him her arms she cast;
and this deed was to be her last,
for as her tears he kissed away
and she begged him, For one hour, stay,
a band of trolls assailed the vale.
Their flaming arrows like bright hail
set alight the corn-hedge around,
they baying, all, like hunting hound
who, finding a fox in the field
would the thing to his master yield
and so shouts for joy with panting hot
because he found the thing he sought,
glorying more in kill than chase-
so they came with terrible pace
to where the lovers stood in tears.
Their howling pricked upon their ears.
The soldier then, without a word,
drawing, from out its sheath, his sword,
turned, seeking to defend his love.
Her token of the silver dove,
was shining there upon his hand,
and in the vale he made his stand
terrible, many trolls slaying,
quailing not at their fell baying.
But even as his foes retreat,
their baying now cries of defeat,
somewhere ‘midst them a bowstring sings;
her cry about the valley rings.
A rose, his love, pierced by a thorn;
down she fell upon that grey morn,
a great black arrow in her side,
and in his arms his bright love died.
III
Now blood for blood without remorse
he has taken of that fell force,
charging after their retreating,
slaying swiftly at each meeting,
as, in rage, he took them over
avenging for him his lover.
Now he has placed his love’s cold clay,
upon a drear and doleful day,
beneath a tall cairn in Ardale-
the Red Valley, that bloodstained vale.
And there about her stony grave,
where ‘round the corn shall ever wave
as long as breezes gently blow
down from the Craggy Mountains’ snow,
the soldier paces, lost in grief
from which his heart knows no relief,
rueful ever of her still rest
wishing with even his own breast
he might have stopped that deadly dart
that slew his bright love, tender heart;
and like the little gift of grace
from slender finger in that place
she bade him take on that fell morn,
that it should his own hand adorn,
the truest token of lost love
shall ever be a silver dove.