Collected Poems
That I shall see in Camelot, waiting there
For me to cringe and beg of him again
The dust of mercy, calling it holy bread.
I wronged him, but he bought me with a name
Too large for my king-father to relinquish
Though I prayed him, and I prayed God aloud,
To spare that crown. I called it crown enough
To be my father ' s child until you came.
And then there were no crowns or kings or fathers
Under the sky. I saw nothing but you.
And you would whip me back to bury myself
In Camelot, with a few slave maids and lackeys
To be my grovelling court; and even their faces
Would not hide half the story. Take me to France
To France or Egypt, anywhere else on earth
Than Camelot ! Is there not room in France
For two more dots of mortals? or for one?
For me alone? Let Lionel go with me
Or Bors. Let Bors go with me into France,
And leave me there. And when you think of me,
Say Guinevere is in France, where she is happy;
And you may say no more of her than that . . .
Why do you not say something to me now
Before I go? Why do you look and look?
Why do you frown as if you thought me mad?
I am not mad but I shall soon be mad,
If I go back to Camelot where the King is.
Lancelot! ... Is there nothing left of me?
Nothing of what you called your white and gold,
And made so much of? Has it all gone by?
He must have been a lonely God who made
Man in his image and then made only a woman!
Poor fool she was ! Poor Queen ! Poor Guinevere !
There were kings and bishops once, under her window
Like children, and all scrambling for a flower.