LITMIR.BIZ

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moon grew low,

       One hand had fallen down, and now lay on

      My cold stiff palm; there were no colours then

       For near an hour, and I fell asleep

       In spite of all my striving, even when

       I held her whose name-letters make me leap.

      I did not sleep long, feeling that in sleep

       I did some loved one wrong, so that the sun

       Had only just arisen from the deep

       Still land of colours, when before me one

      Stood whom I knew, but scarcely dared to touch,

       She seemed to have changed so in the night;

       Moreover she held scarlet lilies, such

       As Maiden Margaret bears upon the light

      Of the great church walls, natheless did I walk

       Through the fresh wet woods, and the wheat that morn,

       Touching her hair and hand and mouth, and talk

       Of love we held, nigh hid among the corn.

      Back to the palace, ere the sun grew high,

       We went, and in a cool green room all day

       I gazed upon the arras giddily,

       Where the wind set the silken kings a-sway.

      I could not hold her hand, or see her face;

       For which may God forgive me! but I think,

       Howsoever, that she was not in that place.

       These memories Launcelot was quick to drink;

      And when these fell, some paces past the wall,

       There rose yet others, but they wearied more,

       And tasted not so sweet; they did not fall

       So soon, but vaguely wrenched his strained heart sore

      In shadowy slipping from his grasp: these gone,

       A longing followed; if he might but touch

       That Guenevere at once! Still night, the lone

       Grey horse's head before him vex'd him much,

      In steady nodding over the grey road:

       Still night, and night, and night, and emptied heart

       Of any stories; what a dismal load

       Time grew at last, yea, when the night did part,

      And let the sun flame over all, still there

       The horse's grey ears turn'd this way and that,

       And still he watch'd them twitching in the glare

       Of the morning sun, behind them still he sat,

      Quite wearied out with all the wretched night,

       Until about the dustiest of the day,

       On the last down's brow he drew his rein in sight

       Of the Glastonbury roofs that choke the way.

      And he was now quite giddy as before,

       When she slept by him, tired out, and her hair

       Was mingled with the rushes on the floor,

       And he, being tired too, was scarce aware

      Of her presence; yet as he sat and gazed,

       A shiver ran throughout him, and his breath

       Came slower, he seem'd suddenly amazed,

       As though he had not heard of Arthur's death.

      This for a moment only, presently

       He rode on giddy still, until he reach'd

       A place of apple-trees, by the thorn-tree

       Wherefrom St. Joseph in the days past preached.

      Dazed there he laid his head upon a tomb,

       Not knowing it was Arthur's, at which sight

       One of her maidens told her, 'He is come,'

       And she went forth to meet him; yet a blight

      Had settled on her, all her robes were black,

       With a long white veil only; she went slow,

       As one walks to be slain, her eyes did lack

       Half her old glory, yea, alas! the glow

      Had left her face and hands; this was because

       As she lay last night on her purple bed,

       Wishing for morning, grudging every pause

       Of the palace clocks, until that Launcelot's head

      Should lie on her breast, with all her golden hair

       Each side: when suddenly the thing grew drear,

       In morning twilight, when the grey downs bare

       Grew into lumps of sin to Guenevere.

      At first she said no word, but lay quite still,

       Only her mouth was open, and her eyes

       Gazed wretchedly about from hill to hill;

       As though she asked, not with so much surprise

      As tired disgust, what made them stand up there

       So cold and grey. After, a spasm took

       Her face, and all her frame, she caught her hair,

       All her hair, in both hands, terribly she shook,

      And rose till she was sitting in the bed,

       Set her teeth hard, and shut her eyes and seem'd

       As though she would have torn it from her head,

       Natheless she dropp'd it, lay down, as she deem'd

      It matter'd not whatever she might do:

       O Lord Christ! pity on her ghastly face!

       Those dismal hours while the cloudless blue

       Drew the sun higher: He did give her grace;

      Because at last she rose up from her bed,

       And put her raiment on, and knelt before

       The blessed rood, and with her dry lips said,

       Muttering the words against the marble floor:

      'Unless you pardon, what shall I do, Lord,

       But go to hell? and there see day by day

       Foul deed on deed, hear foulest word on word,

       For ever and ever, such as on the way

      To Camelot I heard once from a churl,

       That curled me up upon my jennet's neck

       With bitter shame; how then, Lord, should I curl

       For ages and for ages? dost thou reck

      That I am beautiful, Lord, even as you

       And your dear mother? why did I forget

       You were so beautiful, and good, and true,

       That you loved me so, Guenevere? O yet

      If even I go to hell, I cannot choose

       But love you, Christ, yea, though I cannot keep

       From loving Launcelot; O Christ! must I lose

       My own heart's love? see, though I cannot weep,

      Yet am I very sorry for my sin;

       Moreover, Christ, I cannot bear that hell,

       I am most fain to love you, and to win

       A place in heaven some time: I cannot tell:

      Speak

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