The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems. William Morris

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      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

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KING ARTHUR'S TOMB

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      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

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