Lore
He sits astride his midnight steed, the law of thought and judge of deed
And long his hair on forehead fair, though on his brows doth rest his care
And mighty hands do grip the reins that choke the kings and end their reigns
And in his temper stews the strife that boils in every ending life.
He gallops through the sea of blue, although his hoofbeats sound too few
And hear his horse's mighty neigh the men who seek the winding way
The silver sword in silver sheath doth sing the song the wise bequeath
Upon the fools in farming-home who plough the land and read no tome.
He winds his horn and game is born, although in youth the hunters scorn
He draws his sword and says his Word, and fickle men to War are spurred
He strings his bow and drags his hoe, he cries at joy and laughs at woe
He pours his beer and brews his fear, and merry makes for all to hear.
And even though the king is dead he finds a man to take his stead
And even though the soldier fought he did not find what long he sought
The blood that spills from slitted veins doth bring to him the greatest pains
And though the death is long and slow, a weary life makes more the woe.
He sows the seeds of oak and beech, he smiths the swords that wisdoms teach,
He binds the books and blunts the hooks that kill the fish in muddy brooks,
And while he stands upon his throne and sits upon his floor alone
No man shall hear the heavy sigh that begs the preacher not to lie.
He weaves the wool and tempers steel, he hates the false and loves the real,
He sings the songs and sounds the gongs, he robs the robbers in their throngs,
He shapes the steeps and digs such deeps that in their death the living keeps,
And vows to sprinkle heaven's snow on those who judge the rain too slow.
He rules the slopes of mountains old that barren are as they are cold
And governs he the dancing fire that fells the house and kills the liar
Though while he sleeps and dream he keeps the rain doth sow what summer reaps
And springs the corn from curtains old that tear at seams and hide his gold.
And his the tears that fill the seas, and his the seeds that yield the trees,
His voice is song upon the wind that respite bears for those who've sinned,
He grows the May Day's merry feast, he cuts the wheat and hunts the beast,
And sets upon his table cold the songs of young and tales of old.
She sits beside her weaving-loom and spins the cloaks of murky gloom,
She weaves the wombs of princes dear and sheds on each a single tear,
And hum doth she in merry tones that mend the spite of splintered bones,
And when she sings to darkened sky, the tears she sheds are dim and dry.
She learns the spinsters in their arts and mends the pain of broken hearts,
And loops the links of chary love that rests upon the clouds above,
She guides the seed of brave misdeed and draws her care above her creed,
And though his hate leaves haters blind, her love shall always ride behind.
And hers the hands that fray demands, and hers the sieves that sift the sands
And hers the knife which rends the wife as in her womb doth spark a life,
And hers the wine that fills the breasts and heavy makes the mothers' chests
Of nectar brewed in moonlight stewed, of heavy brood and judgement shrewd.
And draws she from the water-well the seed that wombs doth cause to swell
Her tears do heal the broken land and irrigate her silty sand
As corn doth love to take for root and trees do love to raise their fruit
And though he ploughs he doth not sow, though both are wont for love to grow.
Her fingers long do string the lyres that sing to men of men's desires
She cleaves the hooves of pigs and goats, she blunts their horns and grows their oats
She teases from the winter's sheath the warmth of summer's airy breeze
And sings the songs of rights and wrongs, and writes the rites that sing these songs.
She births the beasts that doth he hunt and spawns the fish his nets do shunt
She grows the trees that fall to earth beneath his axes' steely mirth
She loves the child and grants the life that doth he stint through war and strife
And grows the wheat he cuts and grinds, and ripens berries that he finds.
But though the summer and the winter long do bear each other's splinter
And the lore of life and death doth from the grave take living breath
Without the sowing, harvest fails, and with no wood do wind no trails
And ere the death no life is born, and ere her lyre doth haunt his horn.
And though the knight doth stir in hate, he loves his child and loves his mate
And though the fire doth burn the brush, it halts before the water's rush
Although the lost is not the gained, the war abhorr'd is death refrain'd,
And though the moon is not the sun, in Hate and Love the Two are One.