Lancelot and Guinevere

Sir Lancelot beside the mere
Rode at the golden close of day,
And the sad eyes of Guinevere
Went with him, with him, all the way.

The golden light to silver turned,
The mist came up out of the mere,
And steadily before him burned
The sombre gaze of Guinevere.

A dreadful chill about him crept,
The pleasant air to winter turned;
Like the wan eyes of one that wept
Far through the mist the faint stars burned.

All that had sinned in days gone by
Like pale companions round him crept,
All that beneath the morning sky
Had called the night to mind and wept.

But strangest showed his own offence
Of all the shadows creeping by;
The star of his magnificence
Fell from its station in the sky.

The lean wind robbed him of his pride,
Keen grew the sting of his offence;
And like a lamp within him died
The flame of his magnificence.

The drifting phantoms of the mere
Were death to pleasure and to pride;
The joy he had of Guinevere
Faded into the dark and died.

Oh loss of hope with loss of day
In mist and shadow of the mere!
Where with him, with him, all the way,
Went the sad eyes of Guinevere.