While he spoke She neither blushed nor shook,but deathly-pale Stood grasping what was nearest,then replied:
'Of all this will I nothing;'and so fell,And thus they bore her swooning to her tower.
Then spake,to whom through those black walls of yew Their talk had pierced,her father:'Ay,a flash,I fear me,that will strike my blossom dead.
Too courteous are ye,fair Lord Lancelot.
I pray you,use some rough discourtesy To blunt or break her passion.'
Lancelot said,'That were against me:what I can I will;'
And there that day remained,and toward even Sent for his shield:full meekly rose the maid,Stript off the case,and gave the naked shield;Then,when she heard his horse upon the stones,Unclasping flung the casement back,and looked Down on his helm,from which her sleeve had gone.
And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound;
And she by tact of love was well aware That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him.
And yet he glanced not up,nor waved his hand,Nor bad farewell,but sadly rode away.
This was the one discourtesy that he used.
So in her tower alone the maiden sat:
His very shield was gone;only the case,Her own poor work,her empty labour,left.
But still she heard him,still his picture formed And grew between her and the pictured wall.
Then came her father,saying in low tones,'Have comfort,'whom she greeted quietly.
Then came her brethren saying,'Peace to thee,Sweet sister,'whom she answered with all calm.
But when they left her to herself again,Death,like a friend's voice from a distant field Approaching through the darkness,called;the owls Wailing had power upon her,and she mixt Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms Of evening,and the moanings of the wind.
And in those days she made a little song,And called her song 'The Song of Love and Death,'
And sang it:sweetly could she make and sing.
'Sweet is true love though given in vain,in vain;And sweet is death who puts an end to pain:
I know not which is sweeter,no,not I.
'Love,art thou sweet?then bitter death must be:
Love,thou art bitter;sweet is death to me.
O Love,if death be sweeter,let me die.
'Sweet love,that seems not made to fade away,Sweet death,that seems to make us loveless clay,I know not which is sweeter,no,not I.
'I fain would follow love,if that could be;
I needs must follow death,who calls for me;
Call and I follow,I follow!let me die.'
High with the last line scaled her voice,and this,All in a fiery dawning wild with wind That shook her tower,the brothers heard,and thought With shuddering,'Hark the Phantom of the house That ever shrieks before a death,'and called The father,and all three in hurry and fear Ran to her,and lo!the blood-red light of dawn Flared on her face,she shrilling,'Let me die!'
As when we dwell upon a word we know,Repeating,till the word we know so well Becomes a wonder,and we know not why,So dwelt the father on her face,and thought 'Is this Elaine?'till back the maiden fell,Then gave a languid hand to each,and lay,Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes.
At last she said,'Sweet brothers,yesternight I seemed a curious little maid again,As happy as when we dwelt among the woods,And when ye used to take me with the flood Up the great river in the boatman's boat.
Only ye would not pass beyond the cape That has the poplar on it:there ye fixt Your limit,oft returning with the tide.
And yet I cried because ye would not pass Beyond it,and far up the shining flood Until we found the palace of the King.
And yet ye would not;but this night I dreamed That I was all alone upon the flood,And then I said,"Now shall I have my will:"And there I woke,but still the wish remained.
So let me hence that I may pass at last Beyond the poplar and far up the flood,Until I find the palace of the King.
There will I enter in among them all,And no man there will dare to mock at me;But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me,And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me;Gawain,who bad a thousand farewells to me,Lancelot,who coldly went,nor bad me one:
And there the King will know me and my love,And there the Queen herself will pity me,And all the gentle court will welcome me,And after my long voyage I shall rest!'
'Peace,'said her father,'O my child,ye seem Light-headed,for what force is yours to go So far,being sick?and wherefore would ye look On this proud fellow again,who scorns us all?'
Then the rough Torre began to heave and move,And bluster into stormy sobs and say,'I never loved him:an I meet with him,I care not howsoever great he be,Then will I strike at him and strike him down,Give me good fortune,I will strike him dead,For this discomfort he hath done the house.'
To whom the gentle sister made reply,'Fret not yourself,dear brother,nor be wroth,Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault Not to love me,than it is mine to love Him of all men who seems to me the highest.'
'Highest?'the father answered,echoing 'highest?'
(He meant to break the passion in her)'nay,Daughter,I know not what you call the highest;But this I know,for all the people know it,He loves the Queen,and in an open shame:
And she returns his love in open shame;
If this be high,what is it to be low?'
Then spake the lily maid of Astolat:
'Sweet father,all too faint and sick am I
For anger:these are slanders:never yet Was noble man but made ignoble talk.
He makes no friend who never made a foe.
But now it is my glory to have loved One peerless,without stain:so let me pass,My father,howsoe'er I seem to you,Not all unhappy,having loved God's best And greatest,though my love had no return:
Yet,seeing you desire your child to live,Thanks,but you work against your own desire;For if I could believe the things you say I should but die the sooner;wherefore cease,Sweet father,and bid call the ghostly man Hither,and let me shrive me clean,and die.'
So when the ghostly man had come and gone,She with a face,bright as for sin forgiven,Besought Lavaine to write as she devised A letter,word for word;and when he asked 'Is it for Lancelot,is it for my dear lord?
