But even as he spoke, the hand of God Worked on the sombre branches, and straightway They were all green with sap, and bud, and leaf, As at the very bidding of the spring, Burst forth, and soon each tender branch was gay With flowers that nodded in the winter’s breeze (So blossomed in old time the prophet’s rod), And Lancelot stood and saw the wondrous thing. Then softly spake the hermit, “Now is grief Reproved, and sorrow cast out with the lees; For God beholds the living, not the dead; And He that took the semblance of a child Loves He but penance, and the drooping head, Has He not sung for joy, has He not smiled?” So they grew old together, and the years Pressed no more to their lips the cup of tears (They had drained all, maybe). And ever less Seemed all things mortal, as in quietness They pondered the eternal mysteries (The noblest heritage of all men born), Such as are writ upon the face of dawn, Or in the glamour of a moonlit night, Or in the autumn swallow’s southern flight, Or in the breaking of the restless seas: Or dreamed rich, hallowed dreams of aureate days While yet the King was young, and sunlight fell On bower and roof of ancient Camelot: Of triumph clarion, and thanksgiving bell, When all was song, and laughter, and high praise, Even when as yet the accursed thing was not. Then would loom out from the chill mists of time The faces and the forms remembered still, The King and Guinevere, and Galahad, That rode upon a peerless quest and dire, Kay, swift and hasty as a flame of fire, And gentle Percival, whom to give made glad; Merlin, contriver of the riddling rime, And Gawain, silent harbinger of ill. So as the day draws ever toward the dark, Ever toward peace the great wind’s sounding breath, And ever toward the further shore the bark They drew to the dark, silent realm of death. Far, far away from their old palace-halls Where once they lived a splendid life and vain, That now are scattered stones and crumbled walls In some soft vale, or by the echoing main, Beneath the springing grass, and very deep They three do lie, where never mornings rise To ope the portals of their dazèd eyes, Nor ever mortal footstep breaks their sleep, And near beside lies Arthur, even he That was King once, and yet again shall be. Legend _Grey,_ ancient abbeys, you may see them yet, In that high plain above the western sea: A broken arch or two, a few worn stones Piled one upon another, and for paving Uneven fragments with tall grass between: Grass that is always green, winter and summer, The grass that grows on long-forgotten graves.