SIR BORS. Galahad sits dreamily; What strange things may his eyes see, SIR GALAHAD. Ozana, shall I pray for thee? Within the tresses of her hair SUMMER DAWN. [The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine 1856; darauf im GuenevereBande 1858.] PRAY but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: They pray the long gloom through for daylight new born, Speak but one word to me over the corn, IN PRISON. [The Defence of Guenevere etc. 1858.] WEARILY, drearily Half the day long, Flap the great banners High over the stone; Sounds the wind's song, Bending the banner-poles. While, all alone, Watching the loophole's spark, The grim walls, square letter'd Still strain the banner-poles THE BLUE CLOSET. [The Defence of Guenevere etc. 1858.] LADY Alice, lady Louise, Between the wash of the tumbling seas And ever the great bell overhead Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead, LADY LOUISE. Sister, let the measure swell Not too loud; for you sing not well And ever the chevron overhead LADY ALICE. Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen, From day to day and year to year; To break the locks of the doors below, If we dared, in singing; for dream on dream, Float from the gold strings, float from the keys, Float from the open'd lips of Louise; But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue; And ever the great bell overhead Booms in the wind a knell for the dead, The wind plays on it a knell for the dead. They sing all together. How long ago was it, how long ago, He came to this tower with hands full of snow? Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down! he said, He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare. I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise, In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears, Yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry, I am so feeble now, would I might die. And in truth the great bell overhead Will he come back again, or is he dead? Or did they strangle him as he lay there, Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here! Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive Through the floor shot up a lily red, With a patch of earth from the land of the dead, Jiriczek, Englische Dichter. 24 What matter that his cheeks were pale, O, love Louise, have you waited long? What if his hair that brush'd her cheek His eyes were grown quite blue again, O, love Louise, this is the key If ye take me by the hand? And ever the great bell overhead, And the tumbling seas mourn'd for the dead; For their song ceased, and they were dead. THE TUNE OF SEVEN TOWERS. [The Defence of Guenevere etc. 1858.] No one goes there now; For what is left to fetch away From the desolate battlements all arow, And the lead roof heavy and grey? Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers. No one walks there now; Except in the white moonlight |