“Yet evermore about her form there clings And evermore shall cling, the ancient grace, Like evening sunlight lingering on the mere: And till the end of all created things There shall be some one found, shall strive to trace The immortal loveliness of Guinevere. “Shall I not mind me of old ecstasies In Camelot, beneath the ancient walls, In shady paths, and marble terraces Rose-fragrant, where eternal sunlight falls. But ah! the last long kiss is ta’en and given, And the last look in those unfathomed eyes, The passionate last embrace is coldly riven, And all is grief, beneath the pitiless skies. “Gods of the burnt-out hearth, the wandered wind, Gods of pale dawns that vanished long ago, Gods of the barren tree, the withered leaf. The faded flower, and the ungarnered sheaf, Gods half-forgot in the wild ages’ flow Yours, yours am I, that all for nought have sinned.” Spring, summer passed away, and autumn rain Swelled the lean brooks, until the gelid year Shot forth its icy hand, and grasped again. Again the hanging clouds were struck and furled By winds of winter, until skies were clear, And there was frost o’ nights, and all the world Lay glistening to the newly risen sun. Till came that season, wherein solemn days Do celebrate the reign on earth begun Of the most blessèd Child, whenas all ways Were bound, and all the fields were white with snow. Then in the chapel at high noon they three Offered their quiet orisons and so Came forth and looked upon the purity, And when he saw the fields all stainless-white Lancelot groaned in spirit, and spake: “How sore And no wise joyous to a sinner’s sight Is this dear land, where the snow lies untrod. Even so once before the eyes of God My soul lay all unspotted; now no more.” “Courage, my son, and patience,” quoth the sage; No sin there is, that shall not lose its stain Through the great love of God, and His dear Son. Repent and be forgiven: know that none Shall sue before His throne, and sue in vain, Nor shall one name be blotted from the page If he that bears it turn to prayer and tears.” Then Lancelot: “Though through the tale of years That still are left before the longed-for earth Receive my body, I should strive amain To slay myself, and gain regenerate birth, Alas it were all profitless and vain. Verily, when I came unto this place I railed on God, that I had lost my soul And nothing gained: until a heavenly grace Enwrapped me, like some sick man made half whole, And now my grief is only for old sin. But ah, what boots it? Lo, this barren tree (He touched a shrub that grew beside the door), This tree, methinks, shall bud and blossom before I pass the gates divine, and enter in To the fair country I must never see.”