Sidor som bilder
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I am thine husband — not a smaller soul, Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence.

Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow.

They summon me their King to lead mine hosts

Far down to that great battle in the west, Where I must strike against the man they call

My sister's son-no kin of mine, who leagues

With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights,

Traitors and strike him dead, and meet myself

Death, or I know not what mysterious doom.

And thou remaining here wilt learn the event;

But hither shall I never come again,
Never lie by thy side, see thee no more
Farewell!'

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What help in that? I cannot kill my sin,
If soul be soul, nor can I kill my shame;
No, nor by living can I live it down.
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to
months,

The months will add themselves and make the years,

620

The years will roll into the centuries,
And mine will ever be a name of scorn.
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame.
Let the world be; that is but of the
world-

What else? what hope? I think there was a hope,

Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope;

His hope he call'd it; but he never mocks, For mockery is the fume of little hearts. And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven

My wickedness to him, and left me hope 630 That in mine own heart I can live down

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'I found Him in the shining of the stars I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields,

But in His ways with men I find Him not. I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.

O me for why is all around us here
As if some lesser god had made the world,
But had not force to shape it as he would,
Till the High God behold it from beyond,
And enter it, and make it beautiful?
Or else as if the world were wholly fair,
But that these eyes of men are dense and
dim,

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