(Guenevere speaking.)
(3) And every morn I scarce could pray at all,
For Launcelot’s red-golden hair would play,
Instead of sunlight, on the painted wall,
Mingled with dreams of what the priest would say;
Grim curses out of Peter and of Paul;
Judging of strange sins in Leviticus;
Another sort of writing on the wall,
Scored deep across the painted heads of us.
Christ sitting with the woman at the well,