A Damsel with a Dulcimer

[smokingboot]

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora....

instead of Abora he said Deborah. His little joke.

He is not dead yet. He's in the hospice and right outside is a garden he can walk in full of birds and flowers.

He is still so sharp, sang the above and demanded to know of me what poem it came from, and who wrote it. When I confessed I didn't know, he laughed, saying 'You footle around pretending to be some kind of aesthete....'

I pointed out that he was pronouncing 'aesthete' incorrectly. He said he was just testing me.
I mentioned that the Lake poets were perfectly capable of getting it wrong:

'I measured it from side to side,
Tis two feet long and three feet wide...'

But that wasn't getting me out of the jam of not knowing my Coleridge. I told him I knew he didn't care that much, that Chaucer was his favourite, and reminded him of the time he recited so beautifully, back at the Black Horse in the old Talking Stick Days:

Ma dame ye ben of Al Beaute ſhryne
As fer As cercled is the mapamonde
For As the cristall glorious ye ſhyne
And lyke Ruby ben your chekys rounde
Therwyth ye ben ſo mery and ſo iocunde
That At A Reuell whan that I ſe you dance
It is an oynement vnto my wounde
Thoght ye to me ne do no daliance.

For thogh I wepe of teres ful A tyne
Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde
Your ſemy voys that ye ſo ſmall out twyne
Makyth my thoght in ioy And blys habounde
So curtayſly I go wyth love bounde
That to my ſelf I ſey in my penaunce
Suffyſeth me to loue you Rosemounde
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne
As I in love Am walwed And I wounde
For whych ful ofte I of my ſelf devyne
That I Am trew Tristam the ſecunde
My love may not refreyde nor affound
I brenne Ay in an Amorouſe pleſaunce
Do what you lyſt I wyl your thral be founde
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliance

Or even:

Madame, you are a shrine of all beauty,
As far encircling as the map of the world.
For you shine as the glorious crystal,
And your round cheeks are like Ruby.
Therewith you are so merry and so jocund,
That at a revel when that I see you dance;
It is an ointment unto my wound,
Though you, to me, do no dalliance.

For though I weep a basin of tears,
Yet may that woe not confound my heart.
Your seemly voice that you so delicately bring forth,
Make my thoughts, in joy and bliss, abound.
So courteously I go, with love bound
That, to myself, I say in my penance,
"Suffer me to love you Rosemounde;
Though you, to me, do no dalliance".

Never was pike so imbued in galantine
As I in love, am imbued and wounded.
For which I very oft, of myself, deign
That I am true Tristam the Second.
My love may not be cooled nor sunk,
I burn in an amourous pleasance.
Do what you like, I bid you find your thrall
Though you, to me, do no dalliance.


Enough. The time has come to get very drunk.

Comments

[november-girl.livejournal.com]

The way you describe him makes him sound quite Byronic. In the best way.
x

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

He would love to have been Byronic!