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To One Reading the Morte D'Arthure

O daughter of our Southern sun,
     Sweet sister of each flower,
Dost dream in terraced Avalon
     A shadow-haunted hour?
Or stand with Guinevere upon
     Some ivied Camelot tower?

Or, in the wind, dost breathe the musk
     That blows Tintagel's sea on?
Or 'mid the lists by castled Usk
     Hear some wild tourney's glee on?
Or 'neath the Merlin moons of dusk
     Dost muse in old Caerleon?

Or now of Launcelot, and then
     Of Arthur, 'mid the roses,
Dost speak with wily Vivien?
     Or, where the shade reposes,
Dost walk with stately, armored men
     In marble-fountained closes?

So speak the dreams within thy gaze,
     The dreams thy spirit cages,
Would that Romance – which on thee lays
     The spell of bygone ages –
Held me! A memory of those days,
     A portion of those pages.