The Judgment Of God

Swerve to the left, son Roger, he said,         When you catch his eyes through the helmet-slit,     Swerve to the left, then out at his head,         And the Lord God give you joy of it!     The blue owls on my father's hood         Were a little dimm'd as I turn'd away;     This giving up of blood for blood         Will finish here somehow to-day.     So, when I walk'd out from the tent,         Their howling almost blinded me;     Yet for all that I was not bent         By any shame. Hard by, the sea     Made a noise like the aspens where         We did that wrong, but now the place     Is very pleasant, and the air         Blows cool on any passer's face.     And all the wrong is gather'd now         Into the circle of these lists:     Yea, howl out, butchers! tell me how         His hands were cut off at the wrists;     And how Lord Roger bore his face         A league above his spear-point, high     Above the owls, to that strong place         Among the waters; yea, yea, cry:     What a brave champion we have got!         Sir Oliver, the flower of all     The Hainault knights! The day being hot,         He sat beneath a broad white pall,     White linen over all his steel;         What a good knight he look'd! his sword     Laid thwart his knees; he liked to feel         Its steadfast edge clear as his word.     And he look'd solemn; how his love         Smiled whitely on him, sick with fear!     How all the ladies up above         Twisted their pretty hands! so near     The fighting was: Ellayne! Ellayne!         They cannot love like you can, who     Would burn your hands off, if that pain         Could win a kiss; am I not true     To you for ever? therefore I         Do not fear death or anything;     If I should limp home wounded, why,         While I lay sick you would but sing,     And soothe me into quiet sleep.         If they spat on the recreant knight,     Threw stones at him, and cursed him deep,         Why then: what then? your hand would light     So gently on his drawn-up face,         And you would kiss him, and in soft     Cool scented clothes would lap him, pace         The quiet room and weep oft, oft     Would turn and smile, and brush his cheek         With your sweet chin and mouth; and in     The order'd garden you would seek         The biggest roses: any sin.     And these say: No more now my knight,         Or God's knight any longer: you,     Being than they so much more white,         So much more pure and good and true,     Will cling to me for ever; there,         Is not that wrong turn'd right at last     Through all these years, and I wash'd clean?         Say, yea, Ellayne; the time is past,     Since on that Christmas-day last year         Up to your feet the fire crept,     And the smoke through the brown leaves sere         Blinded your dear eyes that you wept;     Was it not I that caught you then,         And kiss'd you on the saddle-bow?     Did not the blue owl mark the men         Whose spears stood like the corn a-row?     This Oliver is a right good knight,         And must needs beat me, as I fear,     Unless I catch him in the fight,         My father's crafty way: John, here!     Bring up the men from the south gate,         To help me if I fall or win,     For even if I beat, their hate         Will grow to more than this mere grin.