So they communed. Afar her castle stood, Its slender towers glimmering through the wood: A forest lodge rose, ivy-buried, near A woodland vista where faint herds of deer Stalked like soft shadows: where, with many a run, Mavis and throstle caroled in the sun: And where through trees was seen a surf-white shore. For this was Morgane's realm, embowered Gore; And that her castle, sea-built Chariot, That rooky pile, where, she a while forgot Urience, her husband, now at Camelot. Hurt in that battle where King Arthur strove With the Five Heathen Kings, and, slaying, drove The Five before him, Accolon was borne To a gray castle on his shield one morn;-- A castle like a dream, set high in scorn Above the world and all its hungry herds, Belted with woods melodious with birds, Far from the rush of spears and roar of swords, And the loud shields of battle-bloody lords, And fields of silent slain where Havoc sprawled Gorged to her eyes with carnage.--Dim, high-halled, And hushed it rose; and through the granite-walled Huge gate, and court, up stairs of marble sheen, Six damsels bore him, tiremaids of a queen, Stately and dark, who moved as if a flame Of starlight shone around her; and who came With healing herbs and searched his wounds. A dame, So radiant in raiment silvery, So white, that she attendant seemed to be On that high Holy Grail, which evermore The Table Round hath sought by wood and shore; The angel-guarded cup of mystery, That but the pure in body and soul may see;-- Thus not for him, a worldly one, to love, Who loved her even to wonder; skied above His worship as the moon above the main, That strives and strives to reach her, pale with pain, She with her peaceful, pitiless, virgin cheer Watching his suffering year on weary year.-- To Accolon such seemed she: Then, too late, His heart's ideal, merciless as fate! For whom his soul must yearn till death; and wait And dream of; evermore with sighs and tears, Through the long waste of unavailing years, Seeing her ever luminously stand In luminous heavens, beckoning with her hand: Before which vision heart and soul were weak, And dumb with love, that would, yet could not speak.-- Her beauty filled him with divine despair. Around his heart she seemed to wrap her hair, Her raven hair, and drag him to his doom; Her looks were splendid daggers in the gloom Of his sick soul, his heart's invaded tower, Stabbing, yet never slaying, every hour. Thus worshiping that queen, Morgane le Fay, For many a day within his room he lay, Longing to live now, then again to die, As now her face, or now her glancing eye, Bade his heart hope, with smiled approval of His passion; now despair, with scorn of love; His love, that dragged itself before her feet,