Collected Poems
It was you loved. You told me so yourself.
And that same precious blue-veined cream-white soul
Will soon be safer, if I understand you,
In Camelot, where the King is, than elsewhere
On earth. What more, in faith, have I to ask
Of earth or heaven than that! Although I fell
When you said Camelot, are you to know,
Surely, the stroke you gave me then was not
The measure itself of ecstasy? We women
Are such adept inveterates in our swooning
That we fall down for joy as easily
As we eat one another to show our love.
Even horses, seeing again their absent masters,
Have wept for joy; great dogs have died of it. "
Having said as much as that, she frowned and held
Her small white hands out for the fire to warm them.
Forward she leaned, and forward her thoughts went
To Camelot. But they were not there long,
Her thoughts ; for soon she flashed her eyes again,
And he found in them what he wished were tears
Of angry sorrow for what she had said.
" What are you going to do with me? " she asked;
And all her old incisiveness came back,
With a new thrust of malice, which he felt
And feared. " What are you going to do with me?
What does a child do with a worn-out doll?
I was a chil3 once; and I had a father.
He was a king; and, having royal ways,
He made a queen of me King Arthur ' s queen.
And if that happened, once upon a time,
Why may it not as well be happening now
That I am not a queen? Was I a queen
When first you brought me here with one torn rag
To cover me? Was I overmuch a queen
When I sat up at last, and in a gear