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Yet tears they shed: they had their part
Of sorrow for when time was ripe,

The still affection of the heart

Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again,

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And left a want unknown before; Although the loss that brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more,

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With farther lookings on. The kiss,

The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss,

The comfort, I have found in thee:

But that God bless thee, dear who wrought
Two spirits to one equal mind -

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With blessings beyond hope or thought,

With blessings which no words can find,

Arise, and let us wander forth,

To yon old mill across the wolds;
For look, the sunset, south and north,
Winds all the vale in rosy folds,
And fires your narrow casement glass,
Touching the sullen pool below:
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass
Is dry and dewless.
Let us go.

THE PASSING OF ARTHUR.

THAT story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
First made and latest left of all the knights,
Told, when the man was no more than a voice
In the white winter of his age, to those
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.

For on their march to westward, Bedivere, Who slowly paced among the slumbering host, Heard in his tent the moanings of the King:

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I found Him in the shining of the stars,
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields,
But in His ways with men I find Him not.
I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.
O me! for why is all around us here
As if some lesser god had made the world,
But had not force to shape it as he would,
Till the High God behold it from beyond,
And enter it, and make it beautiful?

Or else as if the world were wholly fair,

But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
And have not power to see it as it is;
Perchance, because we see not to the close;
For I, being simple, thought to work His will,
And have but stricken with the sword in vain;
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm
Reels back into the beast, and is no more.
My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death :
Nay God my Christ—I pass but shall not die.'

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Then, ere that last weird battle in the west
There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'd
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown
Along a wandering wind, and past his ear
Went shrilling Hollow, hollow all delight!
Hail, king to-morrow thou shalt pass away.
Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee.
And I am blown along a wandering wind,
And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.'

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And fainter onward, like wild birds that change

Their season in the night and wail their way

From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream
Shrill'd; but in going mingled with dim cries

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Far in the moonlit haze among the hills,

As of some lonely city sack'd by night,
When all is lost, and wife and child with wail
Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and call'd,
Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind.

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Thine, Gawain, was the voice are these dim cries
Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild
Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?'

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake :
'O me, my king, let pass whatever will,
Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field;
But in their stead thy name and glory cling
To all high places like a golden cloud
For ever but as yet thou shalt not pass.
Light was Gawain in life, and light in death

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Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man;

And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise

I hear the steps of Modred in the west,

And with him many of thy people and knights

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Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown
Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.
Right well in heart they know thee for the king.
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.'

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: Far other is this battle in the west

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Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth,
And brake the petty Kings and fought with Rome
And thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,
And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine

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To war against my people and my knights.
The king who fights his people fights himself.

And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke
That strikes them dead is as my death to me.

Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way

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Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw

One lying in the dust at Almesbury,

Hath folded in the passes of the world.'

Then rose the king and moved his host by night,

And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league,

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Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse

A land of old upheaven from the abyss

By fire, to sink into the abyss again;
Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,
And the long mountains ended in a coast
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away
The phantom circle of a moaning sea.
There the pursuer could pursue no more,

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And he that fled no further fly the king;

And there, that day when the great light of heaven

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Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year,

On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.

Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight

Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west.
A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea:
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew
Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold
With formless fear and ev'n on Arthur fell
Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought,
For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,
And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;
And some had visions out of golden youth,
And some beheld the faces of old ghosts

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Look in upon the battle; and in the mist
Was many a noble deed, many a base,

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And chance and craft and strength in single fights,
And ever and anon with host to host

Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn
Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash
Of battle-axes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks
After the Christ, of those who falling down
Looked up for heaven, and only saw the mist;
And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,
Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of the lungs
In that close mist, and cryings for the light,
Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.

Last, as by some one deathbed after wail Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,

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Save for some whisper of the seething seas,
A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came

A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew
The mist aside, and with that wind the tide
Rose, and the pale king glanced across the field
Of battle but no man was moving there;
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,

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Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave
Brake in among dead faces, to and fro

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Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down

Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,

And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome,

And rolling far along the gloomy shores

The voice of days of old and days to be.

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Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, And whiter than the mist that all day long

Had held the field of battle was the King:

Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,

And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,

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And beats upon the faces of the dead,

My dead, as tho' they had not died for me?

O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n
Confusion, till I know not what I am,
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be king.
Behold, I seem but king among the dead.'

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Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: My King, King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,

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There also will I worship thee as king.

Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live

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Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought
The heathen back among us, yonder stands,

Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house.'

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Then spake the King: My house hath been my doom. But call not thou this traitor of my house

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