The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems

Name: The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems
Author: Morris, William

Morris, William

Arthurian romances -- Adaptations; English poetry -- 19th century

Now I remember what a most strange year,
      Most strange and awful, in the beechen wood
    I have pass'd now; I still have a faint fear
      It is a kind of dream not understood.

    I have seen no one in this wood except
      The witch and her; have heard no human tones,
    But when the witches' revelry has crept
      Between the very jointing of my bones.

    Ah! I know now; I could not go away,
      But needs must stop to hear her sing that song
    She always sings at dawning of the day.
      I am not happy here, for I am strong,

    And every morning do I whet my sword,
      Yet Rapunzel still weeps within the tower,
    And still God ties me down to the green sward,
      Because I cannot see the gold stair floating lower.

              RAPUNZEL _sings from the tower_.

              My mother taught me prayers
              To say when I had need;
              I have so many cares,
              That I can take no heed
              Of many words in them;
              But I remember this:
              _Christ, bring me to thy bliss.
              Mary, maid withouten wem,
              Keep me!_ I am lone, I wis,
              Yet besides I have made this
              By myself: _Give me a kiss,
              Dear God dwelling up in heaven!_
              Also: _Send me a true knight,
              Lord Christ, with a steel sword, bright,
              Broad, and trenchant; yea, and seven
              Spans from hilt to point, O Lord!
              And let the handle of his sword
              Be gold on silver, Lord in heaven!
              Such a sword as I see gleam
              Sometimes, when they let me dream._

                Yea, besides, I have made this:
              _Lord, give Mary a dear kiss,
              And let gold Michael, who looked down,
              When I was there, on Rouen town
              From the spire, bring me that kiss
              On a lily! Lord do this!_

                These prayers on the dreadful nights,
              When the witches plait my hair,
              And the fearfullest of sights
              On the earth and in the air,
              Will not let me close my eyes,
              I murmur often, mix'd with sighs,
              That my weak heart will not hold
              At some things that I behold.
              Nay, not sighs, but quiet groans,
              That swell out the little bones
              Of my bosom; till a trance
              God sends in middle of that dance,
              And I behold the countenance
              Of Michael, and can feel no more
              The bitter east wind biting sore
              My naked feet; can see no more
              The crayfish on the leaden floor,
              That mock with feeler and grim claw.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems

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