Elaine from Astolat

 
The river glides the flowered bier
from Bernard's songless keep
to Arthur's sorrowed pier:
Elaine is now adrift
before the bank-edged willow boughs,
the gleaners in the barley field
with gleaming scythes
and sweating brows,
the bailiff roving in the Autumn lane,
the dead leaves in the winding path,
the white mist on the wold,
the mere.
Her pale hand grasps
a letter and a lily stem
while candles at her head and feet
weep light reflectively.
She's come in endless, icy sleep
on scarlet water-ways
to floating rest at Camelot
for heart-rent love of him,
of grim and heedless Lancelot.
And all the joy once held in Astolat
grows dim.