The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems | Page 8

the aftertime by God above.' 'Banner of Arthur, with black-bended shield
Sinister-wise across the fair gold ground! Here let me tell you what a knight you are, O sword and shield of Arthur! you are found A crooked sword, I think, that leaves a scar
On the bearer's arm, so be he thinks it straight, Twisted Malay's crease beautiful blue-grey, Poison'd with sweet fruit; as he found too late, My husband Arthur, on some bitter day!
O sickle cutting hemlock the day long! That the husbandman across his shoulder hangs, And, going homeward about evensong, Dies the next morning, struck through by the fangs!
Banner, and sword, and shield, you dare not die, Lest you meet Arthur in the other world, And, knowing who you are, he pass you by, Taking short turns that he may watch you curl'd,
Body and face and limbs in agony, Lest he weep presently and go away, Saying: I loved him once, with a sad sigh, Now I have slain him, Lord, let me go too, I pray. [Launcelot falls.
Alas! alas! I know not what to do, If I run fast it is perchance that I May fall and stun myself, much better so, Never, never again! not even when I die.'
LAUNCELOT, on awaking.
'I stretch'd my hands towards her and fell down, How long I lay in swoon I cannot tell: My head and hands were bleeding from the stone, When I rose up, also I heard a bell.'

SIR GALAHAD, A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY

SIR GALAHAD, A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY
It is the longest night in all the year, Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born; Six hours ago I came and sat down here, And ponder'd sadly, wearied and forlorn.
The winter wind that pass'd the chapel door, Sang out a moody tune, that went right well With mine own thoughts: I look'd down on the floor, Between my feet, until I heard a bell
Sound a long way off through the forest deep, And toll on steadily; a drowsiness Came on me, so that I fell half asleep, As I sat there not moving: less and less
I saw the melted snow that hung in beads Upon my steel-shoes; less and less I saw Between the tiles the bunches of small weeds: Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe
Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground, I thought: O Galahad! the days go by, Stop and cast up now that which you have found, So sorely you have wrought and painfully.
Night after night your horse treads down alone The sere damp fern, night after night you sit Holding the bridle like a man of stone, Dismal, unfriended: what thing comes of it?
And what if Palomydes also ride, And over many a mountain and bare heath Follow the questing beast with none beside? Is he not able still to hold his breath
With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow pale With weary striving, to seem best of all To her, 'as she is best,' he saith? to fail Is nothing to him, he can never fall.
For unto such a man love-sorrow is So dear a thing unto his constant heart, That even if he never win one kiss, Or touch from Iseult, it will never part.
And he will never know her to be worse Than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is: Good knight, and faithful, you have 'scaped the curse In wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss.
Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out, Can he not think of Guenevere's arms, round Warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout Till all the place grows joyful with the sound?
And when he lists can often see her face, And think, 'Next month I kiss you, or next week, And still you think of me': therefore the place Grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek.
But me, who ride alone, some carle shall find Dead in my arms in the half-melted snow, When all unkindly with the shifting wind, The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know
Indeed that they will say: 'This Galahad If he had lived had been a right good knight; Ah! poor chaste body!' but they will be glad, Not most alone, but all, when in their sight
That very evening in their scarlet sleeves The gay-dress'd minstrels sing; no maid will talk Of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves, Grown big upon the bushes of the walk,
East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hard To see the minster therefrom: well-a-day! Before the trees by autumn were well bared, I saw a damozel with gentle play,
Within that very walk say last farewell To her dear knight, just riding out to find (Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal, And their last kisses sunk into my mind,
Yea, for she stood lean'd forward on his breast, Rather, scarce stood; the back of