Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/270

 For it is Modred now, not Lancelot, Whose native hate plans your annihilation Though he may smile till he be sick, and swear Allegiance to an unforgiven father Until at last he shake an empty tongue Talked out with too much lying though his lies Will have a truth to steer them. Trust him not, For unto you the father, he the son Is like enough to be the last of terrors If in a field of time that looms to you Far larger than it is you fail to plant And harvest the old seeds of what I say, And so be nourished and adept again For what may come to be. But Lancelot Will have you first; and you need starve no more For the Queen's love, the love that never was. Your Queen is now your Kingdom, and hereafter Let no man take it from you, or you die. Let no man take it from you for a day; For days are long when we are far from what We love, and mischiefs other name is distance. Let .hat be all, for I can say no more; Not even to Blaise the Hermit, were he living, Could I say more than I have given you now To hear; and he alone was my confessor." The King arose and paced the floor again. "I get gray comfort of dark words," he said; "But tell me not that you can say no more: You can, for I can hear you saying it. Yet I'll not ask for more. I have enough Until my new knight comes to prove and find The promise and the glory of the Grail, Though I shall see no Grail. For I have built On sand and mud, and I shall see no Grail."