Ethelgran

O Ethelgran, with thy hair golden blonde,
How fair thou art in my eyes scorned.
Thine skin a soft white, of which I was fond.
Pity be to he who was forlorn.

In every man she held in them her heart,
Trusting at least one with their love,
And hoping, above all, that they would not part.
O Ethelgran, whose heart was like a dove.

But, I suppose, to those who loved you truly,
Though many they were in number,
Among thy friends I was largely unruly.
O Ethelgran, who invades me when I slumber.

Though her love was not bound,
She grew fond of both sides of a race.
With a heart heavy, this I found.
And while she spoke, her words stung like mace.

For years I had yearned to be her,
So that I may tell her secrets of my soul.
But she was never to be seen, that hurt like burs!
And from mine chest my spirit was nay whole.

So now I lay in my bed, alone and cold,
Dreaming of where I went wrong.
Was I in my crusade to bold?
O Ethelgran, with thy torment lasting long.


For all the gold and riches in the world
I could not figure answer to this riddle.
Not a single thought broke past my hair curled.
How the muses will inspire the one in the middle!

Lo, I see thee walking down the street,
Hand in hand with a shared fond,
I fear the moment when our eyes meet.
O Ethelgran, with thy hair golden blonde.

  ¶ 9:49 PM