Part 1
Produced by Thierry Alberto, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THE
DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE
AND OTHER POEMS
BY
WILLIAM MORRIS
REPRINTED FROM THE KELMSCOTT PRESS EDITION AS REVISED BY THE AUTHOR
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA 1908
All rights reserved
_First Edition, BELL & DALDY, 1858 Reprinted, 1875, for ELLIS & WHITE, and Subsequently for REEVES & TURNER Kelmscott Press Edition (revised by the Author), 1892 Transferred to LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 1896 New Edition corrected by Kelmscott Press Edition, May 1900 Reprinted January 1908_
CONTENTS
PAGE _The Defence of Guenevere_ 1
_King Arthur's Tomb_ 19
_Sir Galahad, a Christmas Mystery_ 43
_The Chapel in Lyoness_ 57
_Sir Peter Harpdon's End_ 65
_Rapunzel_ 111
_Concerning Geffray Teste Noire_ 135
_A Good Knight in Prison_ 148
_Old Love_ 155
_The Gilliflower of Gold_ 159
_Shameful Death_ 163
_The Eve of Crecy_ 166
_The Judgment of God_ 169
_The Little Tower_ 174
_The Sailing of the Sword_ 178
_Spell-Bound_ 182
_The Wind_ 187
_The Blue Closet_ 194
_The Tune of Seven Towers_ 199
_Golden Wings_ 202
_The Haystack in the Floods_ 215
_Two Red Roses across the Moon_ 223
_Welland River_ 226
_Riding Together_ 231
_Father John's War-Song_ 234
_Sir Giles' War-Song_ 237
_Near Avalon_ 239
_Praise of My Lady_ 241
_Summer Dawn_ 246
_In Prison_ 247
THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE
But, knowing now that they would have her speak, She threw her wet hair backward from her brow, Her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek,
As though she had had there a shameful blow, And feeling it shameful to feel ought but shame All through her heart, yet felt her cheek burned so,
She must a little touch it; like one lame She walked away from Gauwaine, with her head Still lifted up; and on her cheek of flame
The tears dried quick; she stopped at last and said: O knights and lords, it seems but little skill To talk of well-known things past now and dead.
God wot I ought to say, I have done ill, And pray you all forgiveness heartily! Because you must be right, such great lords; still
Listen, suppose your time were come to die, And you were quite alone and very weak; Yea, laid a dying while very mightily
The wind was ruffling up the narrow streak Of river through your broad lands running well: Suppose a hush should come, then some one speak:
'One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell, Now choose one cloth for ever; which they be, I will not tell you, you must somehow tell
Of your own strength and mightiness; here, see!' Yea, yea, my lord, and you to ope your eyes, At foot of your familiar bed to see
A great God's angel standing, with such dyes, Not known on earth, on his great wings, and hands, Held out two ways, light from the inner skies
Showing him well, and making his commands Seem to be God's commands, moreover, too, Holding within his hands the cloths on wands;
And one of these strange choosing cloths was blue, Wavy and long, and one cut short and red; No man could tell the better of the two.
After a shivering half-hour you said: 'God help! heaven's colour, the blue;' and he said, 'hell.' Perhaps you then would roll upon your bed,
And cry to all good men that loved you well, 'Ah Christ! if only I had known, known, known;' Launcelot went away, then I could tell,
Like wisest man how all things would be, moan, And roll and hurt myself, and long to die, And yet fear much to die for what was sown.
Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever may have happened through these years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie.
Her voice was low at first, being full of tears, But as it cleared, it grew full loud and shrill, Growing a windy shriek in all men's ears,
A ringing in their startled brains, until She said that Gauwaine lied, then her voice sunk, And her great eyes began again to fill,
Though still she stood right up, and never shrunk, But spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair! Whatever tears her full lips may have drunk,
She stood, and seemed to think, and wrung her hair, Spoke out at last with no more trace of shame, With passionate twisting of her body there:
It chanced upon a day that Launcelot came To dwell at Arthur's court: at Christmas-time This happened; when the heralds sung his name,
Son of King Ban of Benwick, seemed to chime Along with all the bells that rang that day, O'er the white roofs, with little change of rhyme.
Christmas and whitened winter passed away, And over me the April sunshine came, Made very awful with black hail-clouds, yea
And in the Summer I grew white with flame, And bowed my head down: Autumn, and the sick Sure knowledge things would never be the same,
However often Spring might be most thick Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and I grew Careless of most things, let the clock tick, tick,
To my unhappy pulse, that beat right through My eager body; while I laughed out loud, And let my lips curl up at false or true,
Seemed cold and shallow without any cloud. Behold my judges, then the cloths were brought; While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts would crowd,
Belonging to the time ere I was bought By Arthur's great name and his little love; Must I give up for ever then, I thought,
That which I deemed would ever round me move Glorifying all things; for a little word, Scarce ever meant at all, must I now prove
Stone-cold for ever? Pray you, does the Lord Will that all folks should be quite happy and good? I love God now a little, if this cord
Were broken, once for all what striving could Make me love anything in earth or heaven? So day by day it grew, as if one should
Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, Down to a cool sea on a summer day; Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven
Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way, Until one surely reached the sea at last, And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay
Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea all past Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips, Washed utterly out by the dear waves o'ercast,
In the lone sea, far off from any ships! Do I not know now of a day in Spring? No minute of that wild day ever slips
From out my memory; I hear thrushes sing, And wheresoever I may be, straightway Thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting:
I was half mad with beauty on that day, And went without my ladies all alone, In a quiet garden walled round every way;
I was right joyful of that wall of stone, That shut the flowers and trees up with the sky, And trebled all the beauty: to the bone,
Yea right through to my heart, grown very shy With weary thoughts, it pierced, and made me glad; Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily,
A little thing just then had made me mad; I dared not think, as I was wont to do, Sometimes, upon my beauty; If I had
Held out my long hand up against the blue, And, looking on the tenderly darken'd fingers, Thought that by rights one ought to see quite through,
There, see you, where the soft still light yet lingers, Round by the edges; what should I have done, If this had joined with yellow spotted singers,
And startling green drawn upward by the sun? But shouting, loosed out, see now! all my hair, And trancedly stood watching the west wind run
With faintest half-heard breathing sound; why there I lose my head e'en now in doing this; But shortly listen: In that garden fair
Came Launcelot walking; this is true, the kiss Wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day, I scarce dare talk of the remember'd bliss,
When both our mouths went wandering in one way, And aching sorely, met among the leaves; Our hands being left behind strained far away.
Never within a yard of my bright sleeves Had Launcelot come before: and now, so nigh! After that day why is it Guenevere grieves?
Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever happened on through all those years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie.
Being such a lady could I weep these tears If this were true? A great queen such as I Having sinn'd this way, straight her conscience sears;
And afterwards she liveth hatefully, Slaying and poisoning, certes never weeps: Gauwaine be friends now, speak me lovingly.
Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps All through your frame, and trembles in your mouth? Remember in what grave your mother sleeps,
Buried in some place far down in the south, Men are forgetting as I speak to you; By her head sever'd in that awful drouth
Of pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow, I pray your pity! let me not scream out For ever after, when the shrill winds blow
Through half your castle-locks! let me not shout For ever after in the winter night When you ride out alone! in battle-rout
Let not my rusting tears make your sword light! Ah! God of mercy, how he turns away! So, ever must I dress me to the fight,
So: let God's justice work! Gauwaine, I say, See me hew down your proofs: yea all men know Even as you said how Mellyagraunce one day,
One bitter day in _la Fausse Garde_, for so All good knights held it after, saw: Yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage; though
You, Gauwaine, held his word without a flaw, This Mellyagraunce saw blood upon my bed: Whose blood then pray you? is there any law
To make a queen say why some spots of red Lie on her coverlet? or will you say: Your hands are white, lady, as when you wed,
Where did you bleed? and must I stammer out, Nay, I blush indeed, fair lord, only to rend My sleeve up to my shoulder, where there lay
A knife-point last night: so must I defend The honour of the Lady Guenevere? Not so, fair lords, even if the world should end
This very day, and you were judges here Instead of God. Did you see Mellyagraunce When Launcelot stood by him? what white fear
Curdled his blood, and how his teeth did dance, His side sink in? as my knight cried and said: Slayer of unarm'd men, here is a chance!
Setter of traps, I pray you guard your head, By God I am so glad to fight with you, Stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead
For driving weight; hurrah now! draw and do, For all my wounds are moving in my breast, And I am getting mad with waiting so.
He struck his hands together o'er the beast, Who fell down flat, and grovell'd at his feet, And groan'd at being slain so young: At least,
My knight said, rise you, sir, who are so fleet At catching ladies, half-arm'd will I fight, My left side all uncovered! then I weet,
Up sprang Sir Mellyagraunce with great delight Upon his knave's face; not until just then Did I quite hate him, as I saw my knight
Along the lists look to my stake and pen With such a joyous smile, it made me sigh From agony beneath my waist-chain, when
The fight began, and to me they drew nigh; Ever Sir Launcelot kept him on the right, And traversed warily, and ever high
And fast leapt caitiff's sword, until my knight Sudden threw up his sword to his left hand, Caught it, and swung it; that was all the fight,
Except a spout of blood on the hot land; For it was hottest summer; and I know I wonder'd how the fire, while I should stand,
And burn, against the heat, would quiver so, Yards above my head; thus these matters went; Which things were only warnings of the woe
That fell on me. Yet Mellyagraunce was shent, For Mellyagraunce had fought against the Lord; Therefore, my lords, take heed lest you be blent
With all this wickedness; say no rash word Against me, being so beautiful; my eyes, Wept all away to grey, may bring some sword
To drown you in your blood; see my breast rise, Like waves of purple sea, as here I stand; And how my arms are moved in wonderful wise,
Yea also at my full heart's strong command, See through my long throat how the words go up In ripples to my mouth; how in my hand
The shadow lies like wine within a cup Of marvellously colour'd gold; yea now This little wind is rising, look you up,
And wonder how the light is falling so Within my moving tresses: will you dare, When you have looked a little on my brow,
To say this thing is vile? or will you care For any plausible lies of cunning woof, When you can see my face with no lie there
For ever? am I not a gracious proof: But in your chamber Launcelot was found: Is there a good knight then would stand aloof,
When a queen says with gentle queenly sound: O true as steel come now and talk with me, I love to see your step upon the ground
Unwavering, also well I love to see That gracious smile light up your face, and hear Your wonderful words, that all mean verily
The thing they seem to mean: good friend, so dear To me in everything, come here to-night, Or else the hours will pass most dull and drear;
If you come not, I fear this time I might Get thinking over much of times gone by, When I was young, and green hope was in sight:
For no man cares now to know why I sigh; And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs, Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie
So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs To see you, Launcelot; that we may be Like children once again, free from all wrongs
Just for one night. Did he not come to me? What thing could keep true Launcelot away If I said, Come? there was one less than three
In my quiet room that night, and we were gay; Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick, Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea
I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak, For he looked helpless too, for a little while; Then I remember how I tried to shriek,
And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head And made me dizzier; till within a while
My maids were all about me, and my head On Launcelot's breast was being soothed away From its white chattering, until Launcelot said:
By God! I will not tell you more to-day, Judge any way you will: what matters it? You know quite well the story of that fray,
How Launcelot still'd their bawling, the mad fit That caught up Gauwaine: all, all, verily, But just that which would save me; these things flit.
Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever may have happen'd these long years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie!
All I have said is truth, by Christ's dear tears. She would not speak another word, but stood Turn'd sideways; listening, like a man who hears
His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood Of his foes' lances. She lean'd eagerly, And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could
At last hear something really; joyfully Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed Of the roan charger drew all men to see, The knight who came was Launcelot at good need.
KING ARTHUR'S TOMB
KING ARTHUR'S TOMB
Hot August noon: already on that day Since sunrise through the Wiltshire downs, most sad Of mouth and eye, he had gone leagues of way; Ay and by night, till whether good or bad
He was, he knew not, though he knew perchance That he was Launcelot, the bravest knight Of all who since the world was, have borne lance, Or swung their swords in wrong cause or in right.
Nay, he knew nothing now, except that where The Glastonbury gilded towers shine, A lady dwelt, whose name was Guenevere; This he knew also; that some fingers twine,
Not only in a man's hair, even his heart, (Making him good or bad I mean,) but in his life, Skies, earth, men's looks and deeds, all that has part, Not being ourselves, in that half-sleep, half-strife,
(Strange sleep, strange strife,) that men call living; so Was Launcelot most glad when the moon rose, Because it brought new memories of her. "Lo, Between the trees a large moon, the wind lows
Not loud, but as a cow begins to low, Wishing for strength to make the herdsman hear: The ripe corn gathereth dew; yea, long ago, In the old garden life, my Guenevere
Loved to sit still among the flowers, till night Had quite come on, hair loosen'd, for she said, Smiling like heaven, that its fairness might Draw up the wind sooner to cool her head.
Now while I ride how quick the moon gets small, As it did then: I tell myself a tale That will not last beyond the whitewashed wall, Thoughts of some joust must help me through the vale,
Keep this till after: How Sir Gareth ran A good course that day under my Queen's eyes, And how she sway'd laughing at Dinadan. No. Back again, the other thoughts will rise,
And yet I think so fast 'twill end right soon: Verily then I think, that Guenevere, Made sad by dew and wind, and tree-barred moon, Did love me more than ever, was more dear
To me than ever, she would let me lie And kiss her feet, or, if I sat behind, Would drop her hand and arm most tenderly, And touch my mouth. And she would let me wind
Her hair around my neck, so that it fell Upon my red robe, strange in the twilight With many unnamed colours, till the bell Of her mouth on my cheek sent a delight
Through all my ways of being; like the stroke Wherewith God threw all men upon the face When he took Enoch, and when Enoch woke With a changed body in the happy place.
Once, I remember, as I sat beside, She turn'd a little, and laid back her head, And slept upon my breast; I almost died In those night-watches with my love and dread.
There lily-like she bow'd her head and slept, And I breathed low, and did not dare to move, But sat and quiver'd inwardly, thoughts crept, And frighten'd me with pulses of my Love.
The stars shone out above the doubtful green Of her bodice, in the green sky overhead; Pale in the green sky were the stars I ween, Because the moon shone like a star she shed
When she dwelt up in heaven a while ago, And ruled all things but God: the night went on, The wind grew cold, and the white moon grew low, One hand had fallen down, and now lay on
My cold stiff palm; there were no colours then For near an hour, and I fell asleep In spite of all my striving, even when I held her whose name-letters make me leap.
I did not sleep long, feeling that in sleep I did some loved one wrong, so that the sun Had only just arisen from the deep Still land of colours, when before me one
Stood whom I knew, but scarcely dared to touch, She seemed to have changed so in the night; Moreover she held scarlet lilies, such As Maiden Margaret bears upon the light
Of the great church walls, natheless did I walk Through the fresh wet woods, and the wheat that morn, Touching her hair and hand and mouth, and talk Of love we held, nigh hid among the corn.
Back to the palace, ere the sun grew high, We went, and in a cool green room all day I gazed upon the arras giddily, Where the wind set the silken kings a-sway.
I could not hold her hand, or see her face; For which may God forgive me! but I think, Howsoever, that she was not in that place. These memories Launcelot was quick to drink;
And when these fell, some paces past the wall, There rose yet others, but they wearied more, And tasted not so sweet; they did not fall So soon, but vaguely wrenched his strained heart sore
In shadowy slipping from his grasp: these gone, A longing followed; if he might but touch That Guenevere at once! Still night, the lone Grey horse's head before him vex'd him much,
In steady nodding over the grey road: Still night, and night, and night, and emptied heart Of any stories; what a dismal load Time grew at last, yea, when the night did part,
And let the sun flame over all, still there The horse's grey ears turn'd this way and that, And still he watch'd them twitching in the glare Of the morning sun, behind them still he sat,
Quite wearied out with all the wretched night, Until about the dustiest of the day, On the last down's brow he drew his rein in sight Of the Glastonbury roofs that choke the way.
And he was now quite giddy as before, When she slept by him, tired out, and her hair Was mingled with the rushes on the floor, And he, being tired too, was scarce aware
Of her presence; yet as he sat and gazed, A shiver ran throughout him, and his breath Came slower, he seem'd suddenly amazed, As though he had not heard of Arthur's death.
This for a moment only, presently He rode on giddy still, until he reach'd A place of apple-trees, by the thorn-tree Wherefrom St. Joseph in the days past preached.
Dazed there he laid his head upon a tomb, Not knowing it was Arthur's, at which sight One of her maidens told her, 'He is come,' And she went forth to meet him; yet a blight
Had settled on her, all her robes were black, With a long white veil only; she went slow, As one walks to be slain, her eyes did lack Half her old glory, yea, alas! the glow
Had left her face and hands; this was because As she lay last night on her purple bed, Wishing for morning, grudging every pause Of the palace clocks, until that Launcelot's head
Should lie on her breast, with all her golden hair Each side: when suddenly the thing grew drear, In morning twilight, when the grey downs bare Grew into lumps of sin to Guenevere.
At first she said no word, but lay quite still, Only her mouth was open, and her eyes Gazed wretchedly about from hill to hill; As though she asked, not with so much surprise
As tired disgust, what made them stand up there So cold and grey. After, a spasm took Her face, and all her frame, she caught her hair, All her hair, in both hands, terribly she shook,