Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/313

 That I am old and gaunt and garrulous, And tell her one more story: I am old.” There were long hours for Merlin after that, And much long wandering in his prison-yard, Where now the progress of each heavy step Confirmed a stillness of impending change And imminent farewell, To Vivian's ear There came for many days no other story Than Merlin's iteration of his love And his departure from Broceliande, Where Merlin still remained. In Vivian's eye, There was a quiet kindness, and at times A smoky flash of incredulity That faded into pain. Was this the Merlin- This incarnation of idolatry And all but supplicating deference This bowed and reverential contradiction Of all her dreams and her realities Was this the Merlin who for years and years Before she found him had so made her love him That kings and princes, thrones and diadems, And honorable men who drowned themselves For love, were less to her than melon-shells ? Was this the Merlin whom her fate had sent One spring day to come ringing at her gate, Bewildering her love with happy terror That later was to be all happiness? Was this the Merlin who had made the world Half over, and then left it with a laugh To be the youngest, oldest, weirdest, gayest, And wisest, and sometimes the foolishest Of all the men of her consideration? Was this the man who had made other men As ordinary as arithmetic?