Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/65



Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground, I thought; O! Galahad, the days go by, Stop and cast up now that which you have found, So sorely you have wrought and painfully.

Night after night your horse treads down alone The sere damp fern, night after night you sit Holding the bridle like a man of stone, Dismal, unfriended, what thing comes of it?

And what if Palomydes also ride, And over many a mountain and bare heath Follow the questing beast with none beside? Is he not able still to hold his breath

With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow pale With weary striving, to seem best of all To her, "as she is best," he saith? to fail Is nothing to him, he can never fall.

For unto such a man love-sorrow is So dear a thing unto his constant heart, That even if he never win one kiss, Or touch from Iseult, it will never part.

And he will never know her to be worse Than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is: Good knight, and faithful, you have 'scaped the curse In wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss.

Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out, Can he not think of Guenevere's arms, round, Warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout Till all the place grows joyful with the sound?