The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems | Page 2

the bells that rang that day, O'er the white roofs, with little change of rhyme.
Christmas and whitened winter passed away, And over me the April sunshine came, Made very awful with black hail-clouds, yea
And in the Summer I grew white with flame, And bowed my head down: Autumn, and the sick Sure knowledge things would never be the same,
However often Spring might be most thick Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and I grew Careless of most things, let the clock tick, tick,
To my unhappy pulse, that beat right through My eager body; while I laughed out loud, And let my lips curl up at false or true,
Seemed cold and shallow without any cloud. Behold my judges, then the cloths were brought; While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts would crowd,
Belonging to the time ere I was bought By Arthur's great name and his little love; Must I give up for ever then, I thought,
That which I deemed would ever round me move Glorifying all things; for a little word, Scarce ever meant at all, must I now prove
Stone-cold for ever? Pray you, does the Lord Will that all folks should be quite happy and good? I love God now a little, if this cord
Were broken, once for all what striving could Make me love anything in earth or heaven? So day by day it grew, as if one should
Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, Down to a cool sea on a summer day; Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven
Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way, Until one surely reached the sea at last, And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay
Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea all past Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips, Washed utterly out by the dear waves o'ercast,
In the lone sea, far off from any ships! Do I not know now of a day in Spring? No minute of that wild day ever slips
From out my memory; I hear thrushes sing, And wheresoever I may be, straightway Thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting:
I was half mad with beauty on that day, And went without my ladies all alone, In a quiet garden walled round every way;
I was right joyful of that wall of stone, That shut the flowers and trees up with the sky, And trebled all the beauty: to the bone,
Yea right through to my heart, grown very shy With weary thoughts, it pierced, and made me glad; Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily,
A little thing just then had made me mad; I dared not think, as I was wont to do, Sometimes, upon my beauty; If I had
Held out my long hand up against the blue, And, looking on the tenderly darken'd fingers, Thought that by rights one ought to see quite through,
There, see you, where the soft still light yet lingers, Round by the edges; what should I have done, If this had joined with yellow spotted singers,
And startling green drawn upward by the sun? But shouting, loosed out, see now! all my hair, And trancedly stood watching the west wind run
With faintest half-heard breathing sound; why there I lose my head e'en now in doing this; But shortly listen: In that garden fair
Came Launcelot walking; this is true, the kiss Wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day, I scarce dare talk of the remember'd bliss,
When both our mouths went wandering in one way, And aching sorely, met among the leaves; Our hands being left behind strained far away.
Never within a yard of my bright sleeves Had Launcelot come before: and now, so nigh! After that day why is it Guenevere grieves?
Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever happened on through all those years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie.
Being such a lady could I weep these tears If this were true? A great queen such as I Having sinn'd this way, straight her conscience sears;
And afterwards she liveth hatefully, Slaying and poisoning, certes never weeps: Gauwaine be friends now, speak me lovingly.
Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps All through your frame, and trembles in your mouth? Remember in what grave your mother sleeps,
Buried in some place far down in the south, Men are forgetting as I speak to you; By her head sever'd in that awful drouth
Of pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow, I pray your pity! let me not scream out For ever after, when the shrill winds blow
Through half your castle-locks! let me not shout For ever after in the winter night When you ride out alone! in battle-rout
Let not my rusting tears make your sword light! Ah! God of mercy, how he turns away! So, ever must I dress me to the fight,
So: