The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems. William Morris

Or better still, Iseult of Brittany?

       Perchance indeed quite ladyless were best.

      Alas, my maids, you loved not overmuch

       Queen Guenevere, uncertain as sunshine

       In March; forgive me! for my sin being such,

       About my whole life, all my deeds did twine,

      Made me quite wicked; as I found out then,

       I think; in the lonely palace where each morn

       We went, my maids and I, to say prayers when

       They sang mass in the chapel on the lawn.

      And every morn I scarce could pray at all,

       For Launcelot's red-golden hair would play,

       Instead of sunlight, on the painted wall,

       Mingled with dreams of what the priest did say;

      Grim curses out of Peter and of Paul;

       Judging of strange sins in Leviticus;

       Another sort of writing on the wall,

       Scored deep across the painted heads of us.

      Christ sitting with the woman at the well,

       And Mary Magdalen repenting there,

       Her dimmed eyes scorch'd and red at sight of hell

       So hardly 'scaped, no gold light on her hair.

      And if the priest said anything that seemed

       To touch upon the sin they said we did,

       (This in their teeth) they looked as if they deem'd

       That I was spying what thoughts might be hid

      Under green-cover'd bosoms, heaving quick

       Beneath quick thoughts; while they grew red with shame,

       And gazed down at their feet: while I felt sick,

       And almost shriek'd if one should call my name.

      The thrushes sang in the lone garden there:

       But where you were the birds were scared I trow:

       Clanging of arms about pavilions fair,

       Mixed with the knights' laughs; there, as I well know,

      Rode Launcelot, the king of all the band,

       And scowling Gauwaine, like the night in day,

       And handsome Gareth, with his great white hand

       Curl'd round the helm-crest, ere he join'd the fray;

      And merry Dinadan with sharp dark face,

       All true knights loved to see; and in the fight

       Great Tristram, and though helmed you could trace

       In all his bearing the frank noble knight;

      And by him Palomydes, helmet off,

       He fought, his face brush'd by his hair,

       Red heavy swinging hair; he fear'd a scoff

       So overmuch, though what true knight would dare

      To mock that face, fretted with useless care,

       And bitter useless striving after love?

       O Palomydes, with much honour bear

       Beast Glatysaunt upon your shield, above

      Your helm that hides the swinging of your hair,

       And think of Iseult, as your sword drives through

       Much mail and plate: O God, let me be there

       A little time, as I was long ago!

      Because stout Gareth lets his spear fall low,

       Gauwaine and Launcelot, and Dinadan

       Are helm'd and waiting; let the trumpets go!

       Bend over, ladies, to see all you can!

      Clench teeth, dames, yea, clasp hands, for Gareth's spear

       Throws Kay from out his saddle, like a stone

       From a castle-window when the foe draws near:

       Iseult! Sir Dinadan rolleth overthrown.

      Iseult! again: the pieces of each spear

       Fly fathoms up, and both the great steeds reel;

       Tristram for Iseult! Iseult! and Guenevere!

       The ladies' names bite verily like steel.

      They bite: bite me, Lord God! I shall go mad,

       Or else die kissing him, he is so pale,

       He thinks me mad already, O bad! bad!

       Let me lie down a little while and wail.'

      'No longer so, rise up, I pray you, love,

       And slay me really, then we shall be heal'd,

       Perchance, in 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

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SIR GALAHAD, A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY

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