Poems (Taylor)/Love's Fool to His Lady

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LOVE'S FOOL TO HIS LADY
Love's Fool am I. To thine imperial court,
 All blue and gold, all music, masque, and sin,
I bring the fool's own follies for thy sport,—
 Mad silver bells, a subtile mandolin
To sting thy sated hours with quaint remorse,
And sad fidelities to strew the course
 Like pansies, where thy perverse feet pass by.
     Love's Fool am I.

Love's Fool am I. For I believe thee filled
 With loving-kindness, though my life is poured
In blood and tears for thee; and splendid-willed,
 And pure, albeit thou slayest as a sword.
 ​Illusion is my livery?—What though?
Art thou not what I dream? God meant thee so!
 Fools overhear His sorrow, sigh on sigh,—
     Love's Fool am I.

Love's Fool am I. Ah! if thy regal eyes
 Drop me no love-stars, yet they shall be lit
With laughter all for me. (Say not the wise
 That Melancholy-mad hath rarest wit?)
Then songs I'll sing thee, wrought with rimes bizarre,
And all sweet lapses in crazed thought that are,
 Till I surprise the tears that purify.
     Love's Fool am I.

Love's Fool am I.—Shall not thy Doomsday break?
 Shall not the golden dragons of thy seat
 ​Writhe in the dust; and lovers all forsake,—
 Yea, rend the purple from thy shoulders sweet,
And drive thee to the desert. I alone,
Oh! I the Fool will follow thee, unknown,
 To kiss thy frantic fingers till thou die;—
      Love's Fool am I.

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