The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems | Page 4

that all mean verily
The thing they seem to mean: good friend, so dear To me in everything,
come here to-night, Or else the hours will pass most dull and drear;
If you come not, I fear this time I might Get thinking over much of
times gone by, When I was young, and green hope was in sight:
For no man cares now to know why I sigh; And no man comes to sing
me pleasant songs, Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie

So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs To see you, Launcelot;
that we may be Like children once again, free from all wrongs
Just for one night. Did he not come to me? What thing could keep true
Launcelot away If I said, Come? there was one less than three
In my quiet room that night, and we were gay; Till sudden I rose up,
weak, pale, and sick, Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea
I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak, For he looked helpless
too, for a little while; Then I remember how I tried to shriek,
And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile The stones they threw up
rattled o'er my head And made me dizzier; till within a while
My maids were all about me, and my head On Launcelot's breast was
being soothed away From its white chattering, until Launcelot said:
By God! I will not tell you more to-day, Judge any way you will: what
matters it? You know quite well the story of that fray,
How Launcelot still'd their bawling, the mad fit That caught up
Gauwaine: all, all, verily, But just that which would save me; these
things flit.
Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever may have happen'd
these long years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie!
All I have said is truth, by Christ's dear tears. She would not speak
another word, but stood Turn'd sideways; listening, like a man who
hears
His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood Of his foes' lances.
She lean'd eagerly, And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could
At last hear something really; joyfully Her cheek grew crimson, as the
headlong speed Of the roan charger drew all men to see, The knight
who came was Launcelot at good need.

KING ARTHUR'S TOMB

KING ARTHUR'S TOMB
Hot August noon: already on that day Since sunrise through the
Wiltshire downs, most sad Of mouth and eye, he had gone leagues of
way; Ay and by night, till whether good or bad
He was, he knew not, though he knew perchance That he was
Launcelot, the bravest knight Of all who since the world was, have
borne lance, Or swung their swords in wrong cause or in right.
Nay, he knew nothing now, except that where The Glastonbury gilded
towers shine, A lady dwelt, whose name was Guenevere; This he knew
also; that some fingers twine,
Not only in a man's hair, even his heart, (Making him good or bad I
mean,) but in his life, Skies, earth, men's looks and deeds, all that has
part, Not being ourselves, in that half-sleep, half-strife,
(Strange sleep, strange strife,) that men call living; so Was Launcelot
most glad when the moon rose, Because it brought new memories of
her. "Lo, Between the trees a large moon, the wind lows
Not loud, but as a cow begins to low, Wishing for strength to make the
herdsman hear: The ripe corn gathereth dew; yea, long ago, In the old
garden life, my Guenevere
Loved to sit still among the flowers, till night Had quite come on, hair
loosen'd, for she said, Smiling like heaven, that its fairness might Draw
up the wind sooner to cool her head.
Now while I ride how quick the moon gets small, As it did then: I tell
myself a tale That will not last beyond the whitewashed wall, Thoughts
of some joust must help me through the vale,

Keep this till after: How Sir Gareth ran A good course that day under
my Queen's eyes, And how she sway'd laughing at Dinadan. No. Back
again, the other thoughts will rise,
And yet I think so fast 'twill end right soon: Verily then I think, that
Guenevere, Made sad by dew and wind, and tree-barred moon, Did
love me more than ever, was more dear
To me than ever, she would let me lie And kiss her feet, or, if I sat
behind, Would drop her hand and arm most tenderly, And touch my
mouth. And she would let me wind
Her hair around my neck, so that it fell Upon my red robe, strange in
the twilight With many unnamed colours, till the bell Of her