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GLASTONBURY
So leave we them, each head inaureoledWith the awakening spring's young sunlight-gold.
Then, on an evening, hurrying footsteps rungWithout the door, and straight 'twas open flung,They saw who stood therein, and each one knewThe face unspared by years and strife and shame,Pale as the moon is pale on winter nights,With deep eyes dreaming like September haze,Or lit with lust of battle, eyes that fewHad looked on and forgot; in such wise cameLancelot, the hero of immortal fights,Lancelot, the golden knight of golden days.
"Whence cam'st thou, Lancelot?" "Even from the Queen,The Queen that was, whom now a convent's shadeImprisons, and a dark and tristful veilEnwraps those brows, that in old days were seenMost puissant proud of all that ever madeThe traitor honest, and the valorous frail.
"Yet evermore about her form there clingsAnd evermore shall cling, the ancient grace,Like evening sunlight lingering on the mere:And till the end of all created thingsThere shall be some one found, shall strive to traceThe immortal loveliness of Guinevere.
"Shall I not mind me of old ecstasiesIn Camelot, beneath the ancient walls,In shady paths, and marble terracesRose-fragrant, where eternal sunlight falls.But ah! the last long kiss is ta'en and given,And the last look in those unfathomed eyes,The passionate last embrace is coldly riven,And all is grief, beneath the pitiless skies.
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