evere!
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,

And elm and oak about the palace there,
The king came back from battle, and I stood
To meet him, with my ladies, on the stair,
My face made beautiful with my young blood.'

'Will she lie now, Lord God?' 'Remember too,
Wrung heart, how first before the knights there came
A royal bier, hung round with green and blue,
About it shone great tapers with sick flame.

And thereupon Lucius, the Emperor,
Lay royal-robed, but stone-cold now and dead,
Not able to hold sword or sceptre more,
But not quite grim; because his cloven head

Bore no marks now of Launcelot's bitter sword,
Being by embalmers deftly solder'd up;
So still it seem'd the face of a great lord,
Being mended as a craftsman mends a cup.

Also the heralds sung rejoicingly
To their long trumpets; Fallen under shield,
Here lieth Lucius, King of Italy,
Slain by Lord Launcelot in open field.

Thereat the people shouted: Launcelot!
And through the spears I saw you drawing nigh,
You and Lord Arthur: nay, I saw you not,
But rather Arthur, God would not let die,

I hoped, these many years; he