The thing they seem to mean: good friend, so dear To me in everything, come here to-night, Or else the hours will pass most dull and drear; If you come not, I fear this time I might Get thinking over much of times gone by, When I was young, and green hope was in sight: For no man cares now to know why I sigh; And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs, Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs To see you, Launcelot; that we may be Like children once again, free from all wrongs Just for one night. Did he not come to me? What thing could keep true Launcelot away If I said, Come? there was one less than three In my quiet room that night, and we were gay; Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick, Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak, For he looked helpless too, for a little while; Then I remember how I tried to shriek, And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head And made me dizzier; till within a while My maids were all about me, and my head On Launcelot's breast was being soothed away From its white chattering, until Launcelot said: By God! I will not tell you more to-day, Judge any way you will: what matters it? You know quite well the story of that fray, How Launcelot still'd their bawling, the mad fit That caught up Gauwaine: all, all, verily, But just that which would save me; these things flit. Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever may have happen'd these long years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie! All I have said is truth, by Christ's dear tears. She would not speak another word, but stood Turn'd sideways; listening, like a man who hears His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood Of his foes' lances. She lean'd eagerly, And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could At last hear something really; joyfully Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed Of the roan charger drew all men to see, The knight who came was Launcelot at good need. KING ARTHUR'S TOMB KING ARTHUR'S TOMB Hot August noon: already on that day Since sunrise through the Wiltshire downs, most sad Of mouth and eye, he had gone leagues of way; Ay and by night, till whether good or bad He was, he knew not, though he knew perchance That he was Launcelot, the bravest knight Of all who since the world was, have borne lance, Or swung their swords in wrong cause or in right. Nay, he knew nothing now, except that where The Glastonbury gilded towers shine, A lady dwelt, whose name was Guenevere; This he knew also; that some fingers twine,