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GLASTONBURY
Then Lancelot: "Though through the tale of yearsThat still are left before the longed-for earthReceive my body, I should strive amainTo slay myself, and gain regenerate birth,Alas it were all profitless and vain.Verily, when I came unto this placeI railed on God, that I had lost my soulAnd nothing gained: until a heavenly graceEnwrapped me, like some sick man made half whole,And now my grief is only for old sin.But ah, what boots it? Lo, this barren tree(He touched a shrub that grew beside the door),This tree, methinks, shall bud and blossom beforeI pass the gates divine, and enter inTo the fair country I must never see."
But even as he spoke, the hand of GodWorked on the sombre branches, and straightwayThey were all green with sap, and bud, and leaf,As at the very bidding of the spring,Burst forth, and soon each tender branch was gayWith flowers that nodded in the winter's breeze(So blossomed in old time the prophet's rod),And Lancelot stood and saw the wondrous thing.
Then softly spake the hermit, "Now is griefReproved, and sorrow cast out with the lees;For God beholds the living, not the dead;And He that took the semblance of a childLoves He but penance, and the drooping head,Has He not sung for joy, has He not smiled?"
So they grew old together, and the yearsPressed no more to their lips the cup of tears(They had drained all, maybe). And ever lessSeemed all things mortal, as in quietnessThey pondered the eternal mysteries(The noblest heritage of all men born),

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