The Vision of Sir Launfal | Page 8

best.]
Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed
away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet
and creek and bay; 60 Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,

We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the
past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 65 How the sap creeps
up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help
knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze
comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
70 That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is
bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we
should not lack; 75 We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,--

And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of
the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 80 Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;
'T is as easy now for the heart to be

true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,--
'T is the natural
way of living: 85 Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake,
And the eyes forget the
tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The
soul partakes of the season's youth, 90 And the sulphurous rifts of
passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like
burnt-out craters healed with snow.
What wonder if Sir Launfal now

Remembered the keeping of his vow? 95
PART FIRST.
I.
"My golden spurs now bring to me,
And bring to me my richest mail,

For to-morrow I go over land and sea,
In search of the Holy Grail;

Shall never a bed for me be spread, 100 Nor shall a pillow be under
my head,
Till I begin my vow to keep;
Here on the rushes will I
sleep,
And perchance there may come a vision true
Ere day create
the world anew." 105 Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,
Slumber
fell like a cloud on him,
And into his soul the vision flew.
II.
The crows flapped over by twos and threes,
In the pool drowsed the
cattle up to their knees, 110 The little birds sang as if it were
The one
day of summer in all the year,
And the very leaves seemed to sing on
the trees:
The castle alone in the landscape lay
Like an outpost of
winter, dull and gray: 115 'Twas the proudest hall in the North
Countree,
And never its gates might opened be,
Save to lord or lady
of high degree;
Summer besieged it on every side,
But the churlish
stone her assaults defied; 120 She could not scale the chilly wall,

Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall
Stretched left and right,

Over the hills and out of sight;
Green and broad was every tent,
125 And out of each a murmur went
Till the breeze fell off at night.

III.
The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
And through the dark
arch a charger sprang,
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 130 In
his gilded mail, that flamed so bright
It seemed the dark castle had
gathered all
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall
In his
siege of three hundred summers long,
And, binding them all in one
blazing sheaf, 135 Had cast them forth: so, young and strong,
And
lightsome as a locust-leaf,
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred
mail,
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.
IV.
It was morning on hill and stream and tree, 140 And morning in the
young knight's heart;
Only the castle moodily
Rebuffed the gifts of
the sunshine free,
And gloomed by itself apart;
The season
brimmed all other things up 145 Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's
cup.
V.
As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,
He was 'ware
of a leper, crouched by the same,
Who begged with his hand and
moaned as he sate;
And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; 150 The
sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,
The flesh 'neath his armor
'gan shrink and crawl,
And midway its leap his heart stood still
Like
a frozen waterfall;
For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 155
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,
And seemed the one blot on
the summer morn,--
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.
VI.
The leper raised not the gold from the dust:
"Better to me the poor
man's crust, 160 Better the blessing of the poor,
Though I turn me
empty from his door;
That is no true alms which the hand can hold;


He gives nothing but worthless gold
Who gives from a sense of duty;
165 But he who gives but a slender mite,
And gives to that which is
out of sight,
That thread of the all-sustaining