Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/310

 To make of what I said another thing Than love or reason could have let me say, Or let me fancy ? Why do you keep the truth So far away from me, when all your gates Will open at your word and let me go To some place where no fear or weariness Of yours need ever dwell ? Why does a woman, Made otherwise a miracle of love And loveliness, and of immortal beauty, Tear one word by the roots out of a thousand, And worry it, and torture it, and shake it, Like a small dog that has a rag to play with ? What coil of an ingenious destiny Is this that makes of what I never meant A meaning as remote as hell from heaven ?" "I don't know," Vivian said reluctantly, And half as if in pain; "I'm going home. I'm going home and leave you here to wander, P,ray take your kings and sins away somewhere And bury them, and bury the Queen in also. I know this king; he lives in Camelot, And I shall never like him. There are specks Almost all over him. Long live the king, But not the king who lives in Camelot, With Modred, Lancelot, and Guinevere And all four speckled like a merry nest Of addled eggs together. You made him King Because you loved the world and saw in him From infancy a mirror for the millions. The world will see itself in him, and then The world will say its prayers and wash its face, And build for some new king a new foundation. Long live the King! . . . But now I apprehend A time for me to shudder and grow old