LITMIR.BIZ

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to me, Christ! I kiss, kiss, kiss your feet;

       Ah! now I weep!' The maid said, 'By the tomb

       He waiteth for you, lady,' coming fleet,

       Not knowing what woe filled up all the room.

      So Guenevere rose and went to meet him there,

       He did not hear her coming, as he lay

       On Arthur's head, till some of her long hair

       Brush'd on the new-cut stone: 'Well done! to pray

      For Arthur, my dear Lord, the greatest king

       That ever lived.' 'Guenevere! Guenevere!

       Do you not know me, are you gone mad? fling

       Your arms and hair about me, lest I fear

      You are not Guenevere, but some other thing.'

       'Pray you forgive me, fair lord Launcelot!

       I am not mad, but I am sick; they cling,

       God's curses, unto such as I am; not

      Ever again shall we twine arms and lips.'

       'Yea, she is mad: thy heavy law, O Lord,

       Is very tight about her now, and grips

       Her poor heart, so that no right word

      Can reach her mouth; so, Lord, forgive her now,

       That she not knowing what she does, being mad,

       Kills me in this way; Guenevere, bend low

       And kiss me once! for God's love kiss me! sad

      Though your face is, you look much kinder now;

       Yea once, once for the last time kiss me, lest I die.'

       'Christ! my hot lips are very near his brow,

       Help me to save his soul! Yea, verily,

      Across my husband's head, fair Launcelot!

       Fair serpent mark'd with V upon the head!

       This thing we did while yet he was alive,

       Why not, O twisting knight, now he is dead?

      Yea, shake! shake now and shiver! if you can

       Remember anything for agony,

       Pray you remember how when the wind ran

       One cool spring evening through fair aspen-tree,

      And elm and oak about the palace there,

       The king came back from battle, and I stood

       To meet him, with my ladies, on the stair,

       My face made beautiful with my young blood.'

      'Will she lie now, Lord God?' 'Remember too,

       Wrung heart, how first before the knights there came

       A royal bier, hung round with green and blue,

       About it shone great tapers with sick flame.

      And thereupon Lucius, the Emperor,

       Lay royal-robed, but stone-cold now and dead,

       Not able to hold sword or sceptre more,

       But not quite grim; because his cloven head

      Bore no marks now of Launcelot's bitter sword,

       Being by embalmers deftly solder'd up;

       So still it seem'd the face of a great lord,

       Being mended as a craftsman mends a cup.

      Also the heralds sung rejoicingly

       To their long trumpets; Fallen under shield,

       Here lieth Lucius, King of Italy,

       Slain by Lord Launcelot in open field.

      Thereat the people shouted: Launcelot!

       And through the spears I saw you drawing nigh,

       You and Lord Arthur: nay, I saw you not,

       But rather Arthur, God would not let die,

      I hoped, these many years; he should grow great,

       And in his great arms still encircle me,

       Kissing my face, half blinded with the heat

       Of king's love for the queen I used to be.

      Launcelot, Launcelot, why did he take your hand,

       When he had kissed me in his kingly way?

       Saying: This is the knight whom all the land

       Calls Arthur's banner, sword, and shield to-day;

      Cherish him, love. Why did your long lips cleave

       In such strange way unto my fingers then?

       So eagerly glad to kiss, so loath to leave

       When you rose up? Why among helmed men

      Could I always tell you by your long strong arms,

       And sway like an angel's in your saddle there?

       Why sicken'd I so often with alarms

       Over the tilt-yard? Why were you more fair

      Than aspens in the autumn at their best?

       Why did you fill all lands with your great fame,

       So that Breuse even, as he rode, fear'd lest

       At turning of the way your shield should flame?

      Was it nought then, my agony and strife?

       When as day passed by day, year after year,

       I found I could not live a righteous life!

       Didst ever think queens held their truth for dear?

      O, but your lips say: Yea, but she was cold

       Sometimes, always uncertain as the spring;

       When I was sad she would be overbold,

       Longing for kisses. When war-bells did ring,

      The back-toll'd bells of noisy Camelot.

       'Now, Lord God, listen! listen, Guenevere,

       Though I am weak just now, I think there's not

       A man who dares to say: You hated her,

      And left her moaning while you fought your fill

       In the daisied meadows! lo you her thin hand,

       That on the carven stone can not keep still,

       Because she loves me against God's command,

      Has often been quite wet with tear on tear,

       Tears Launcelot keeps somewhere, surely not

       In his own heart, perhaps in Heaven, where

       He will not be these ages.' 'Launcelot!

      Loud lips, wrung heart! I say when the bells rang,

       The noisy back-toll'd bells of Camelot,

       There were two spots on earth, the thrushes sang

       In the lonely gardens where my love was not,

      Where I was almost weeping; I dared not

       Weep quite in those days, lest one maid should say,

       In tittering whispers: Where is Launcelot

       To wipe with some kerchief those tears away?

      Another answer sharply with brows knit,

       And warning hand up, scarcely lower though:

       You speak too loud, see you, she heareth it,

       This tigress fair has claws, as I well know,

      As Launcelot knows too, the poor knight! well-a-day!

       Why met he not with Iseult

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