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.
Guenevere
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!
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!
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