The good Knight, SIR LIONELL DE GANIS, wounded unto death, addresses his
Lady, EVALOTT, in the Forest of Dean, whither he has been borne on his shield.
Robbins Library Digital Projects Announcement: We are currently working on a large-scale migration of the Robbins Library Digital Projects to a new platform. This migration affects The Camelot Project, The Robin Hood Project, The Crusades Project, The Cinderella Bibliography, and Visualizing Chaucer.
While these resources will remain accessible during the course of migration, they will be static, with reduced functionality. They will not be updated during this time. We anticipate the migration project to be complete by Summer 2025.
If you have any questions or concerns, please contact us directly at robbins@ur.rochester.edu. We appreciate your understanding and patience.
While these resources will remain accessible during the course of migration, they will be static, with reduced functionality. They will not be updated during this time. We anticipate the migration project to be complete by Summer 2025.
If you have any questions or concerns, please contact us directly at robbins@ur.rochester.edu. We appreciate your understanding and patience.
After the Tournament
I
And shall it be, when white thorns flake
With blossoms all the Maytime brake,
The rustle of a flower or leaf
Will let thee know
That I am near thee, as thy grief,
As long ago?
II
Or shall it be, when blows and dies
The wood-anemone, two eyes
Will gaze in thine, as faint as frost?
And thou, in dreams,
Wilt hear the sigh of one long lost,
Who near thee seems.
III
Or shall it be, where waters soothe
The stillness, thou wilt hear the smooth
Dim notes of a familiar lute,
And in thine ears
Old Provence melodies, long mute,
Like falling tears? . .
IV
Now doff my helm. – Loop thy white arm
Beneath my hair. So. Let thy warm
Blue eyes gaze in mine for a space,
A little while . . .
Love, it will rest me . . . And thy face –
Ah, let it smile.
V
Now art thou thou. Yet – let thy hair,
A golden wonder, fall; thy fair
Full throat bend low; thy kiss be hot
With love, not dry
With anguish. – Sweet, my Evalott!
Now let me die.
And shall it be, when white thorns flake
With blossoms all the Maytime brake,
The rustle of a flower or leaf
Will let thee know
That I am near thee, as thy grief,
As long ago?
II
Or shall it be, when blows and dies
The wood-anemone, two eyes
Will gaze in thine, as faint as frost?
And thou, in dreams,
Wilt hear the sigh of one long lost,
Who near thee seems.
III
Or shall it be, where waters soothe
The stillness, thou wilt hear the smooth
Dim notes of a familiar lute,
And in thine ears
Old Provence melodies, long mute,
Like falling tears? . .
IV
Now doff my helm. – Loop thy white arm
Beneath my hair. So. Let thy warm
Blue eyes gaze in mine for a space,
A little while . . .
Love, it will rest me . . . And thy face –
Ah, let it smile.
V
Now art thou thou. Yet – let thy hair,
A golden wonder, fall; thy fair
Full throat bend low; thy kiss be hot
With love, not dry
With anguish. – Sweet, my Evalott!
Now let me die.
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