Classic Poem

Praised beyond all Enids be
Lady Morfudd, my lovely.
I burn with more than a fire
From the torch-light of her hair,
And yet, her touch as it fell
Was almost-virgin-gentle.

Around my neck white arms went;
Her red lips were impatient.
That kind of kissing has come,
So more than mild, most seldom.
Her poet-prisoner, frail
In her wine-sweet body-gaol,
So I, though I do not tell
All truth of the miracle.

So, in the bonds of the bright
Of her arms, all snow-drift white,
She was imprisoning me
All courtly, lightly, gently.
Who would want to stir
Out of her hold and halter?
Who would want to move
Out of that lock-up love?

And how could a man do better
Than submit to this fetter,
These gyves, this white-snow-gentle
Link and loop of the circle,
Chain and charm of the shackle,
Feather-threat of the throttle,
Wrist-hold, kiss-bold tether
Keeping us close together?

Each man thinks he knows best
Of Arthur's loveliest —
Tegau of the golden breast,
Dyfyr of the golden hair,
Enid, the radiant girl,
Daughter of Yniwl the Earl.

But I, Dafydd the dark,
The swarthy one, soot-sallow,
The too black crow-skin fellow
Rise over them all, and follow
Companioned only with
My marvel, my Morfudd,
So follow, and so fare
Towards that wider air
Rimmed by the gold-white arc.

How bountiful! How blest!