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