And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide. But Enid ever kept the faded silk, Remembering how first he came on her, Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, all his journey toward her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court. And now this morning when he said to her, "Put on your worst and meanest dress," she found And took it, and array'd herself therein. II O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true; Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are seen! So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth That morning, when they both had got to horse, Perhaps because he loved her passionately, And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce Upon a head so dear in thunder, said: "Not at my side. I charge thee ride before, Ever a good way on before; and this I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, Whatever happens, not to speak to me, No, not a word!" and Enid was aghast; And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, When crying out, "Effeminate as I am, I will not fight my way with gilded arms All shall be iron;" he loosed a mighty purse, Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the squire. So the last sight that Enid had of home Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the squire Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again, "To the wilds!" and Enid leading down the tracks Thro' which he bade her lead him on, they past The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds, Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode: Round was their pace at first, but slacken'd soon: A stranger meeting them had surely thought They rode so slowly and they look'd so pale, That each had suffered some exceeding wrong. For he was ever saying to himself, "O I that wasted time to tend upon her, To compass her with sweet observances, To dress her beautifully and keep her true"-- And there he broke the sentence in his heart Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue May break it, when his passion masters him, And she was ever praying the sweet heavens To save her dear lord whole from any wound. And ever in her mind she cast about For that unnoticed failing in herself, Which made him look so cloudy and so cold; Till the great plover's human whistle amazed Her heart, and glancing round the waste she fear'd In every wavering brake an ambuscade. Then thought again, "If there be such in me, I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, If he would only speak and tell me of it."