The Defence of Guenevere · Part 2

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 mouth on my cheek sent a delight

Through all my ways of being; like the stroke Wherewith God threw all men upon the face When he took Enoch, and when Enoch woke With a changed body in the happy place.

Once, I remember, as I sat beside, She turn'd a little, and laid back her head, And slept upon my breast; I almost died In those night-watches with my love and dread.

There lily-like she bow'd her head and slept, And I breathed low, and did not dare to move, But sat and quiver'd inwardly, thoughts crept, And frighten'd me with pulses of my Love.

The stars shone out above the doubtful green Of her bodice, in the green sky overhead; Pale in the green sky were the stars I ween, Because the moon shone like a star she shed

When she dwelt up in heaven a while ago, And ruled all things but God: the night went on, The wind grew cold, and the white moon grew low, One hand had fallen down, and now lay on

My cold stiff palm; there were no colours then For near an hour, and I fell asleep In spite of all my striving, even when I held her whose name-letters make me leap.

I did not sleep long, feeling that in sleep I did some loved one wrong, so that the sun Had only just arisen from the deep Still land of colours, when before me one

Stood whom I knew, but scarcely dared to touch, She seemed to have changed so in the night; Moreover she held scarlet lilies, such As Maiden Margaret bears upon the light

Of the great church walls, natheless did I walk Through the fresh wet woods, and the wheat that morn, Touching her hair and hand and mouth, and talk Of love we held, nigh hid among the corn.

Back to the palace, ere the sun grew high, We went, and in a cool green room all day I gazed upon the arras giddily, Where the wind set the silken kings a-sway.

I could not hold her hand, or see her face; For which may God forgive me! but I think, Howsoever, that she was not in that place. These memories Launcelot was quick to drink;

And when these fell, some paces past the wall, There rose yet others, but they wearied more, And tasted not so sweet; they did not fall So soon, but vaguely wrenched his strained heart sore

In shadowy slipping from his grasp: these gone, A longing followed; if he might but touch That Guenevere at once! Still night, the lone Grey horse's head before him vex'd him much,

In steady nodding over the grey road: Still night, and night, and night, and emptied heart Of any stories; what a dismal load Time grew at last, yea, when the night did part,

And let the sun flame over all, still there The horse's grey ears turn'd this way and that, And still he watch'd them twitching in the glare Of the morning sun, behind them still he sat,

Quite wearied out with all the wretched night, Until about the dustiest of the day, On the last down's brow he drew his rein in sight Of the Glastonbury roofs that choke the way.

And he was now quite giddy as before, When she slept by him, tired out, and her hair Was mingled with the rushes on the floor, And he, being tired too, was scarce aware

Of her presence; yet as he sat and gazed, A shiver ran throughout him, and his breath Came slower, he seem'd suddenly amazed, As though he had not heard of Arthur's death.

This for a moment only, presently He rode on giddy still, until he reach'd A place of apple-trees, by the thorn-tree Wherefrom St. Joseph in the days past preached.

Dazed there he laid his head upon a tomb, Not knowing it was Arthur's, at which sight One of her maidens told her, 'He is come,' And she went forth to meet him; yet a blight

Had settled on her, all her robes were black, With a long white veil only; she went slow, As one walks to be slain, her eyes did lack Half her old glory, yea, alas! the glow

Had left her face and hands; this was because As she lay last night on her purple bed, Wishing for morning, grudging every pause Of the palace clocks, until that Launcelot's head

Should lie on her breast, with all her golden hair Each side: when suddenly the thing grew drear, In morning twilight, when the grey downs bare Grew into lumps of sin to Guenevere.

At first she said no word, but lay quite still, Only her mouth was open, and her eyes Gazed wretchedly about from hill to hill; As though she asked, not with so much surprise

As tired disgust, what made them stand up there So cold and grey. After, a spasm took Her face, and all her frame, she caught her hair, All her hair, in both hands, terribly she shook,

And rose till she was sitting in the bed, Set her teeth hard, and shut her eyes and seem'd As though she would have torn it from her head, Natheless she dropp'd it, lay down, as she deem'd

It matter'd not whatever she might do: O Lord Christ! pity on her ghastly face! Those dismal hours while the cloudless blue Drew the sun higher: He did give her grace;

Because at last she rose up from her bed, And put her raiment on, and knelt before The blessed rood, and with her dry lips said, Muttering the words against the marble floor:

'Unless you pardon, what shall I do, Lord, But go to hell? and there see day by day Foul deed on deed, hear foulest word on word, For ever and ever, such as on the way

To Camelot I heard once from a churl, That curled me up upon my jennet's neck With bitter shame; how then, Lord, should I curl For ages and for ages? dost thou reck

That I am beautiful, Lord, even as you And your dear mother? why did I forget You were so beautiful, and good, and true, That you loved me so, Guenevere? O yet

If even I go to hell, I cannot choose But love you, Christ, yea, though I cannot keep From loving Launcelot; O Christ! must I lose My own heart's love? see, though I cannot weep,

Yet am I very sorry for my sin; Moreover, Christ, I cannot bear that hell, I am most fain to love you, and to win A place in heaven some time: I cannot tell:

Speak 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,