Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/438

 A power that I should not have said was mine— That was not mine, and is not mine—avails me Strangely tonight, although you are here with me; And I see much in what has come to pass That is to be. The Light that I have seen, As you say true, is not the light of Rome, Albeit the word of Rome that set you free Was more than mine or the King's. To flout that word Would sound the preparation of a terror To which a late small war on our account Were a king's pastime and a queen's annoyance; And that, for the good fortune of a world As yet not over-fortuned, may not be. There may be war to come when you are gone, For I doubt yet Gawaine; but Rome will hold you, Hold you in Camelot. If there be more war, No fire of mine shall feed it, nor shall you Be with me to endure it. You are free; And free, you are going home to Camelot. There is no other way than one for you, Nor is there more than one for me. We have lived, And we shall die. I thank you for my life. Forgive me if I say no more tonight." He rose, half blind with pity that was no longer The servant of his purpose or his will, To grope away somewhere among the shadows For wine to drench his throat and his dry tongue, That had been saying he knew not what to her For whom his life-devouring love was now A scourge of mercy. Like a blue-eyed Medea Of white and gold, broken with grief and fear And fury that shook her speechless while she waited, Yet left her calm enough for Lancelot