Alas! dear Philistine--what contumely you suffer at the hands of the revolted! You have grown apologetic for your virtues, which the idealists cast in your teeth as a reproach. You are so foolish you cannot eat of the fruit of desire and at once make it as though it had never been by one "beautiful moment" of emotion. You are so stupid you cannot content the neighbour who owned the fruit by accusing him of being hard because your repentance does not satisfy him for his loss. You are "stodgy"; you are "narrow." You are bitter and untender because you worship the God of Things as They Are, instead of accepting a theism of Things as They Might Be. Of course you really rule the world, and when your critics become too aggressive your logic of stone walls and iron bars makes a trenchant reply, but you are very inarticulate. No one gives you credit for your patient, dull self-restraint. You almost apologize to the scoffers for your persistent moral drudgery. You talk very little about the temptations you have resisted--so much less dramatic than sins against your fellows histrionically washed away by repentant tears. Your painful drudging up the path of obvious duty dazzles and touches no one.--But I, at least, love and respect you--you poor old self-denying Pharisee! December 24. "Oh King Live Forever!" Oh, King!--great King Afar in that pleasant place-- (Sleeping in Avalon, Island of Queens--) What are thy dreams? Where no sound cometh at all Save the lapping of waves, Of the lake's waves lapping the shore; And the moving of winds Stirring a rustle and ripple of leaves-- An infinite rustle and ripple of leaves-- And lifting a little, a little thy wide-strewn hair Fadeless and gold-- What are thy dreams? There where no bird sings, Nor is any bruit by thy head Save only the singing of Queens-- Seven and sad-- Singing of swords and of war, Singing of Carleon-- Singing a magical lay, Sweeter than lutes, A song made of magic by Merlin Dead in the wood.... What are thy dreams, oh King!-- Arthur--thy dreams? Tristram is dead, and Gawain. Galahad gone, and Sir Bors. Merlin is dead in the wood. The base peasant tramples the mire That once was the heart and the lips Of Mordred the base and the liar. The wind of the Breton coast, Stormy and sad, Has blown for a thousand years The dust of that Knight-- Launcelot's dust-- Dust of his bones-- To and fro in the roads-- And the dust of his sword Blows in the eyes of brave men passing that way And stings them to tears. Oh, dread King, what are thy dreams? Guinevere is but a name-- Frail, and lovely, and sad. All whom thou lovedst are gone. Beauty availed them not; Courage, nor pride, nor desire. The sound of their singing is dumb; The sword is broken in twain; Magic to folly is turned;