Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/66

 

And when he lists can often see her face,
⁠And think, "Next month I kiss you, or next week,
And still you think of me:" therefore the place
⁠Grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek.

But me, who ride alone, some carle shall find
⁠Dead in my arms in the half-melted snow,
When all unkindly with the shifting wind,
⁠The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know

Indeed that they will say: "This Galahad
⁠If he had lived had been a right good knight;
Ah! poor chaste body!" but they will be glad,
⁠Not most alone, but all, when in their sight

That very evening in their scarlet sleeves
⁠The gay-dress'd minstrels sing; no maid will talk
Of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves,
⁠Grown big upon the bushes of the walk,

East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hard
⁠To see the minster therefrom: well-a-day!
Before the trees by autumn were well bared,
⁠I saw a damozel with gentle play.

Within that very walk say last farewell
⁠To her dear knight, just riding out to find
(Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal,
⁠And their last kisses sunk into my mind,

Yea, for she stood lean'd forward on his breast,
⁠Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand,
That it might well be kiss'd, she held and press'd
⁠Against his lips; long time they stood there, fann'd