Guinevere

Amid the blossoms of the whitethorn wood, 
flower of all flowers, in Arthur's dream she stood, 
No lily, but a rose of womanhood. 

Gold veil blown backward from her golden hair, 
Green-clad like young leaves in the April air: 
Too fair the dream is, Arthur: deadly fair! 

Yet thou shalt have the rose awhile to hold, 
But for its sweetness' sake thy hearth grows cold — 
Thy sword is rusted all for hair of gold! 

How should he dream of sorrow, shame, or fear, 
So loud the birds sang round the magic mere 
Whose lightest ripple whispered " Guinevere! " 

How should he dream of grief who dreams of love? 
Or guess how sore the cage shall fret his dove 
When she grows weary of the gold thereof? 

Dream: it is good to dream when day is young — 
Thy Queen shall dream another wood among 
When love has loosed the bonds on Lancelot's tongue. 

Dream: as in Avalon (if oaths hold good) 
To-day thou dreamest of her as she stood 
Among the blossoms of the whitethorn wood. 

Dream: I, too, dream who saw but yesterday 
Queen Guinevere among the blossomed may, 
A rose, a rose that shall not fade away. 

Not fade, nor fail, but quicken still men's blood 
In an uncourtly age, a lighter mood — 
A rose that blossoms in a whitethorn wood.