O Guenever, O Guenever once mine,
God may assoil thy failing, but can I
Whose quivering soul is blasted, and whose sky
Is tempest-rent in agony?—Ah, thine,
Thine might have been the fire that should refine
My table round to silver chastity,
Lofty ensample to mine Hall. Oh, why
Should thy soft light no longer purely shine
For my parched soul to bathe in? Guenever,
My Guenever, yet thou wert only mortal—
So too am I; and shall thy every tear
Of anguish well, and I not mark? O hear,
And help me, God, to open wide the portal
Of pardon in my heart for Guenever—
April 10, 1912. |
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