by W. S. Merwin
With al þe manerly merþe þat mon may of telle,
And euer oure luflych knyзt þe lady bisyde.
Such semblaunt to þat segge semly ho made
Wyth stille stollen countenaunce, þat stalworth to plese,
Þat al forwondered watz þe wyзe, and wroth with hymseluen, 1660
Bot he nolde not for his nuture nurne hir aзaynez,
Bot dalt with hir al in daynté, how-se-euer þe dede turned towrast.
Quen þay hade played in halle
As longe as hor wylle hom last, 1665
To chambre he con hym calle,
And to þe chemné þay past.
Ande þer þay dronken, and dalten, and demed eft nwe
To norne on þe same note on Nwe зerez euen;
And then served him the same way a second time.
“Now for this evening,” the knight said, “we are even,
And all the pledges that I made since I came here are paid in full.”
The lord said, “By Saint Giles
You are the best I know.
You will be rich in a while
If all your dealings turn out so.”
Then they set up the trestles and the tables across them,
Cast cloths over them, and then they brought light,
Kindling the wax torches along the walls.
They sat and were served all down the hall,
Much merriment and laughter rippling in the room
Around the fire on the hearth, with entertainments
During supper and after, many lively songs,
Descants for Christmas, new carols among them,
All the finest amusements a man may tell of.
And all the while our courtly knight sat next to the lady.
So enticing were all her expressions toward him,
With glances stolen sidelong to attract that brave man,
That he was embarrassed, and annoyed with himself,
But his manners kept him from returning her courtship,
Yet he tried to answer politely, however she turned it.
When for all in the great room
The entertainments were over
The lord told the knight to come
And they went to his chimney corner.
And there they drank and laughed, and decided to play
Their game to the same tune on New Year's Eve.
Bot þe knyзt craued leue to kayre on þe morn, 1670
For hit watz neз at þe terme þat he to schulde.
Þe lorde hym letted of þat, to lenge hym resteyed,
And sayde, ‘As I am trwe segge, I siker my trawþe
Þou schal cheue to þe grene chapel þy charres to make,
Leude, on Nw Зerez lyзt, longe bifore pryme. 1675
Forþy þow lye in þy loft and lach þyn ese,
And I schal hunt in þis holt, and halde þe towchez, Chaunge wyth þe cheuisaunce, bi þat I charre hider;
For I haf fraysted þe twys, and faythful I fynde þe.
Now “þrid tyme þrowe best” þenk on þe morne, 1680
Make we mery quyl we may and mynne vpon joye,
For þe lur may mon lach when-so mon lykez.’
Þis watz grayþely graunted, and Gawayn is lenged,
Bliþe broзt watz hym drynk, and þay to bedde зeden with liзt. 1685
Sir Gawayn lis and slepes
Ful stille and softe al niзt;
Þe lorde þat his craftez kepes,
Ful erly he watz diзt.
After messe a morsel he and his men token; 1690
Miry watz þe mornyng, his mounture he askes.
Alle þe haþeles þat on horse schulde helden hym after
Were boun busked on hor blonkkez bifore þe halle зatez.
Ferly fayre watz þe folde, for þe forst clenged;
In rede rudede vpon rak rises þe sunne, 1695
And ful clere costez þe clowdes of þe welkyn.
Hunteres vnhardeled bi a holt syde,
Rocheres roungen bi rys for rurde of her hornes;
Summe fel in þe fute þer þe fox bade,
Traylez ofte a traueres bi traunt of her wyles; 1700
But the knight asked leave to ride out in the morning,
For the time was near when he had sworn to go.
The lord brushed that aside and urged him to linger,
Saying, “On my faith as a knight, I give you my word
You will reach the Green Chapel, for your errand there
On New Year's dawn, Prince, long before prime.
So lie in your high room and take your ease
And I shall hunt in these woods and keep our agreement
And exchange the winnings with you, whatever I bring back,
For I have tested you twice and found you of good faith.
Now tomorrow remember, ‘the third throw pays for all.’
Let us be merry while we may, and have joy in our minds,
For sorrow can catch us whenever it pleases.”
So Gawain agreed at once that he would stay.
They drank on it gladly, and then the lights led them to bed.
Sir Gawain lies sleeping
Soundly and still all night.
The lord, with plans turning
In mind, was dressed before daylight.
After Mass, he and his men have a morsel.
The morning was clear. He asks for his horse.
All the mounted knights who would ride after him
Were ready, on their horses, before the hall gates.
The earth was a splendor, with the clinging frost.
The red sun rises flaming upon the drifts of mist
And sails past the clouds of the sky in its full radiance.
Hunters unleashed the hounds at the edge of a wood.
The rocks among the trees rang with the sound of their hooves.
Some picked up the trail of the fox and followed it,
The track weaving this way and that on a cunning course.
A kenet kryes þerof, þe hunt on hym calles;
His felaзes fallen hym to, þat fnasted ful þike,
Runnen forth in a rabel in his ryзt fare,
And he fyskez hem byfore; þay founden hym sone,
And quen þay seghe hym with syзt þay sued hym fast, 1705
Wreзande hym ful weterly with a wroth noyse;
And he trantes and tornayeez þurз mony tene greue,
Hauilounez, and herkenez bi heggez ful ofte.
At þe last bi a littel dich he lepez ouer a spenne,
Stelez out ful stilly bi a strothe rande, 1710
Went haf wylt of þe wode with wylez fro þe houndes;
Þenne watz he went, er he wyst, to a wale tryster,
Þer þre þro at a þrich þrat hym at ones, al graye.
He blenched aзayn bilyue 1715
And stifly start on-stray,
With alle þe wo on lyue
To þe wod he went away.
Thenne watz ht list vpon lif to lyþen þe houndez,
When alle þe mute hade hym met, menged togeder: 1720
Suche a sorзe at þat syзt þay sette on his hede
As alle þe clamberande clyffes hade clatered on hepes;
Here he watz halawed, when haþelez hym metten,
Loude he watz зayned with зarande speche;
Þer he watz þreted and ofte þef called, 1725
And ay þe titleres at his tayl, þat tary he ne myзt;
Ofte he watz runnen at, when he out rayked, And ofte reled in aзayn, so Reniarde watz wylé.
And зe he lad hem bi lagmon, þe lorde and his meyny,
On þis maner bi þe mountes quyle myd-ouer-vnder, 1730
Whyle þe hende knyзt at home holsumly slepes
A small hound keeps up the cry and the hunt answers him.
His fellows follow him, sniffing the scent,
Running ahead in a pack along the right track,
And he races ahead. They found him before lon
g
And when they caught sight of him they spurred on the chase,
Shouting at him loudly with angry cries,
And he dodges and doubles back through the dense thickets,
Often turning in his tracks, to hear them from the hedges.
At last by a little ditch he leaps over a thorn brake,
Slips out secretly by a line of bushes,
Thought he had given the hounds the slip with his tricks,
When he found himself face to face with a hunting station
Where three fierce dogs rushed at him all at once, all gray.
He dodged out of their way
And off at a full run;
With all the woe he could carry
To the woods he was gone.
Then how the heart leapt to hear the hounds
When the whole pack had met and mingled together.
Such calamities they called down upon his head
As would have brought all the crowding cliffs clattering down in heaps.
Here they hallooed after him, when the hunters spied him,
And they greeted him shouting bad names after him.
There he was threatened and called “Thief! Thief!”
With the hounds always at his tail keeping him on the run.
Often they rushed at him when he made for the open,
And often spun back again, for Reynard was wily,
And oh, he led them a long dance, the lord and his company,
Over the mountains, like this, as the sun climbed to midday,
While the courtly knight is still sleeping soundly at home
Withinne þe comly cortynes, on þe colde morne.
Bot þe lady for luf let not to slepe,
Ne þe purpose to payre þat pyзt in hir hert,
Bot ros hir vp radly, rayked hir þeder 1735
In a mery mantyle, mete to þe erþe,
Þat watz furred ful fyne with fellez wel pured,
No hwez goud on hir hede bot þe haзer stones
Trased aboute hir tressour be twenty in clusteres;
Hir þryuen face and hir þrote þrowen al naked, 1740
Hir brest bare bifore, and bihinde eke.
Ho comez withinne þe chambre dore, and closes hit hir after,
Wayuez vp a wyndow, and on þe wyзe callez,
And radly þus rehayted hym with hir riche wordes, with chere: 1745
‘A! mon, how may þou slepe,
Þis morning is so clere?'
He watz in drowping depe,
Bot þenne he con hir here.
In dreз droupyng of dreme draueled þat noble, 1750
As mon þat watz in mornyng of mony þro þoзtes, How þat destiné schulde þat day dele hym his wyrde
At þe grene chapel, when he þe gome metes,
And bihoues his buffet abide withoute debate more;
Bot quen þat comly com he keuered his wyttes, 1755
Swenges out of þe sweuenes, and swarez with hast.
Þe lady luflych com laзande swete,
Felle ouer his fayre face, and fetly hym kyssed;
He welcumez hir worþily with a wale chere.
He seз hir so glorious and gayly atyred, 1760
So fautles of hir fetures and of so fyne hewes,
Inside the elegant curtains, through the cold morning.
But love would not allow the lady to sleep
Nor let go of the purpose pinned into her heart,
But she was up early and on her way there
In an elegant mantle that reached to the ground,
A splendor of furs and pelts artfully trimmed,
Nothing adorning her head but the glittering jewels
In clusters of twenty, in a fillet over her hair,
Her lovely face and all of her throat naked.
Her breast was bare, and her back also.
She comes in through the bedroom door and shuts it behind her,
Opens a window and calls to the knight,
Rousing him right there with her pretty speech, teasing him:
“Ah, man, how can you sleep
With the morning so fair?”
Though his slumber was deep,
Through it he heard her.
That noble knight murmured from the dark depths of his dreams
As a man held down by many heavy thoughts
Of that day when destiny was to deal his fate to him
At the Green Chapel, when he would meet the knight there
And have to lie still for his stroke without defending himself.
But when that beautiful creature comes he recovers his wits,
Breaks out of his dreams and responds at once.
Laughing tenderly, the lovely lady
Bent over his fine face and gave him a sweet kiss.
He welcomed her warmly, happy to have her there.
So glorious she looked, her garments so fine,
Her features so flawless, her skin so fair,
Wiзt wallande joye warmed his hert.
With smoþe smylyng and smolt þay smeten into merþe,
Þat al watz blis and bonchef þat breke hem bitwene, and wynne. 1765
Þay lanced wordes gode,
Much wele þen watz þerinne;
Gret perile bitwene hem stod,
Nif Maré of hir knyзt mynne.
For þat prynces of pris depresed hym so þikke, 1770
Nurned hym so neзe þe þred, þat nede hym bihoued
Oþer lach þer hir luf, oþer lodly refuse.
He cared for his cortaysye, lest craþayn he were,
And more for his meschef зif he schulde make synne,
And be traytor to þat tolke þat þat telde aзt. 1775
‘God schylde,’ quoþ þe schalk, ‘þat schal not befalle!'
With luf-laзyng a lyt he layd hym bysyde Alle þe spechez of specialté þat sprange of her mouthe.
Quoþ þat burde to þe burne, ‘Blame зe disserue,
Зif зe luf not þat lyf þat зe lye nexte, 1780
Bifore alle þe wyзez in þe worlde wounded in hert,
Bot if зe haf a lemman, a leuer, þat yow lykez better,
And folden fayth to þat fre, festned so harde
Þat yow lausen ne lyst—and þat I leue nouþe;
And þat зe telle me þat now trwly I pray yow, 1785
For alle þe lufez vpon lyue layne not þe soþe for gile.’
Þe knyзt sayde, ‘Be sayn Jon,’
And smeþely con he smyle,
‘In fayth I welde riзt non, 1790
Ne non wil welde þe quile.’
That joy welled up in him and warmed his heart.
Gently, with fond smiles, they dally in pleasure,
Complete bliss and happiness breaking forth between them, and joy.
The sweet words flew between them,
Charged with delight.
Great danger lurked between them,
Should Mary forget her knight.
For that sumptuous princess pressed him so hard,
Lured him so near to the edge that he knew he must
Either give in to her love or rudely refuse it.
He was concerned for his courtesy, not wanting to be coarse,
And still more for the damage it would do if he sinned
And betrayed the lord in whose house he was staying.
“God save me,” he said, “that will not happen.”
Lightly, with kind laughter, he turned aside
All the seductive talk that leapt from her mouth.
The lady said to the knight, “It is wrong of you
Not to love the one you are lying next to,
Whose heart is more hurt than any in the world,
But if you have another love, one dearer, whom you love more
And have given your word to that lady in good faith And would not want to break it—that is what I believe.
Tell me the truth about it now, I beg you.
In the name of all the loves in the wo
rld, do not hide the truth to be cunning.”
The knight said, “By Saint John,”
With a gentle smile,
“Lover have I none,
Nor will have for a while.”
‘Þat is a worde,’ quoþ þat wyзt, ‘þat worst is of alle,
Bot I am swared for soþe, þat sore me þinkkez.
Kysse me now comly, and I schal cach heþen,
I may bot mourne vpon molde, as may þat much louyes.' 1795
Sykande ho sweзe doun and semly hym kyssed,
And siþen ho seueres hym fro, and says as ho stondes,
‘Now, dere, at þis departyng do me þis ese,
Gif me sumquat of þy gifte, þi gloue if hit were,
Þat I may mynne on þe, mon, my mournyng to lassen.' 1800
‘Now iwysse,’ quoþ þat wyзe, ‘I wolde I hade here
Þe leuest þing for þy luf þat I in londe welde,
For зe haf deserued, for soþe, sellyly ofte
More rewarde bi resoun þen I reche myзt;
Bot to dele yow for drurye þat dawed bot neked, 1805
Hit is not your honour to haf at þis tyme
A gloue for a garysoun of Gawaynez giftez,
And I am here an erande in erdez vncouþe,
And haue no men wyth no malez with menskful þingez;
Þat mislykez me, ladé, for luf at þis tyme, 1810
Iche tolke mon do as he is tan, tas to non ille ne pine.’
‘Nay, hende of hyзe honours,’
Quoþ þat lufsum vnder lyne,
‘Þaз I hade noзt of yourez, 1815
Зet schulde зe haue of myne.’
Ho raзt hym a riche rynk of red golde werkez,
Wyth a starande ston stondande alofte
Þat bere blusschande bemez as þe bryзt sunne;
Wyt зe wel, hit watz worth wele ful hoge. 1820
Bot þe renk hit renayed, and redyly he sayde,
‘I wil no giftez, for Gode, my gay, at þis tyme;
“That is the worst thing,” she said, “that you could have told me.
But I have had my answer and it is hard to bear.
Now kiss me kindly and I shall be on my way
To the sorrowing life of a woman lost to love.”
With a sigh she bent down and kissed him tenderly,
And then she lets go of him and says as she stands there,
“Now, my love, as I leave you, do me one kindness.
Give me some token of you, your glove or some such thing,
To remember you by and comfort me in my longing.”
“Now truly,” the man said, “I wish I had here
Whatever thing I prize most, to give you for your love,