"This from the King!"—phantoms in fog rode off.
And what remains? From Camelot to Gore
That right she weeping fled; then to the shore,—
As that romancer tells,—Avilion,
Where she hath Majesty gold-crowned yet wan;
In darkest cypress a frail pitious face
Queenly and lovely; 'round sad eyes the trace
Of immemorial tears as for some crime:
They future fixed, expectant of the time
When the forgiving Arthur cometh and