—And musing Launcelot gazed where stole the Light,
Beyond the ghostly bosom of the Mere;
Then, mounting, rode he seaward, dazed with grief,
Turning but once to gaze where lay the Queen—
And all his Life passed in a Pageant slow
Moving athwart the vision of his brain,
The dawn of manhood, and the call to arms,
The blare of trumpet, and the cries of men,
The Battle Light in eyes of those grown grey,
The strange wrapt look of some foredoomed to death—
The spears, like forests, capped with flashing steel,
The standards swaying, sinking, raised again;
The sound of strife, the faces of the dead—
And silence brooding at the end of all!
* * * * *
In every torrent, he would hear her voice,
Each sun that rose and robed the world in flame,
Would flame and burn with love for Guinevere!
Each sunset would recall some happier hour—
The starry nights would speak of Guinevere
And bygone days that never more might be.
Amid the roar of the advancing wave
And long-drawn shriek of pebbles seaward torn—
Through all, would sound the name of Guinevere!
What cloister walls could bar out haunting Thought,
For ever would he think upon the Queen—
And, as he mused, upon his ear there came
The clamour of the wind and gathering storm
And sound of Thunder, answering, o’er the Sea.