For no man cares now to know why I sigh;
And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs,
Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie
So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs
To see you, Launcelot; that we may be
Like children once again, free from all wrongs
Just for one night. Did he not come to me?
What thing could keep true Launcelot away
If I said, Come? there was one less than three
In my quiet room that night, and we were gay;
Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick,
Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea
I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak,
For he looked helpless too, for a little while;
Then I remember how I tried to shriek,
And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile
The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head
And made me dizzier; till within a while
My maids were all about me, and my head
On Launcelot's breast was being soothed away
From its white chattering, until Launcelot said:
By God! I will not tell you more to-day,
Judge any way you will: what matters it?
You know quite well the story of that fray,
How Launcelot still'd their bawling, the mad fit
That caught up Gauwaine: all, all, verily,
But just that which would save me; these things flit.
Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie,
Whatever may have happen'd these long years,
God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie!