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Above the thundering iron and the rain of spears,
She heard the name of Lancelot harshly blown.
She stood – a mutilated flower of stone –
Carved in a lifeless pose of frozen tears.

Westward the night-sky roared in torrents of fire.
The world – a torch set burning by her sin –
She knew would never cool, till Arthur's grin
Of chafing hate, grown listless, should expire.

Remembrance spun her dreams of ivory moons –
Green aisles of hush, proud lips, and singing birds,
But these were jokes Time coined, instead of words,
With which to slay her treasured girlhood-Junes.

The nuns came now – how drawn her face and cold,
Beneath that queenly head of tumbled gold!