Works of Edwin Arlington Robinson

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

  Your story from the book of what has been,

  Your phantom happiness were a ghost indeed,

  And I the least of weasels among men, — 1740

  Too false to manhood and your sacrifice

  To merit a niche in hell. If that were so,

  I’d swear there was no light for me to follow,

  Save your eyes to the grave; and to the last

  I might not know that all hours have an end; 1745

  I might be one of those who feed themselves

  By grace of God, on hopes dryer than hay,

  Enjoying not what they eat, yet always eating.

  The Vision shattered, a man’s love of living

  Becomes at last a trap and a sad habit, 1750

  More like an ailing dotard’s love of liquor

  That ails him, than a man’s right love of woman,

  Or of his God. There are men enough like that,

  And I might come to that. Though I see far

  Before me now, could I see, looking back, 1755

  A life that you could wish had not been lived,

  I might be such a man. Could I believe

  Our love was nothing mightier then than we were,

  I might be such a man — a living dead man,

  One of these days.” 1760

  Guinevere looked at him,

  And all that any woman has not said

  Was in one look: “Why do you stab me now

  With such a needless ‘then’? If I am going —

  And I suppose I am — are the words all lost 1765

  That men have said before to dogs and children

  To make them go away? Why use a knife,

  When there are words enough without your ‘then’

  To cut as deep as need be? What I ask you

  Is never more to ask me if my life 1770

  Be one that I could wish had not been lived —

  And that you never torture it again,

  To make it bleed and ache as you do now,

  Past all indulgence or necessity.

  Were you to give a lonely child who loved you 1775

  One living thing to keep — a bird, may be —

  Before you went away from her forever,

  Would you, for surety not to be forgotten,

  Maim it and leave it bleeding on her fingers?

  And would you leave the child alone with it — 1780

  Alone, and too bewildered even to cry,

  Till you were out of sight? Are you men never

  To know what words are? Do you doubt sometimes

  A Vision that lets you see so far away

  That you forget so lightly who it was 1785

  You must have cared for once to be so kind —

  Or seem so kind — when she, and for that only,

  Had that been all, would throw down crowns and glories

  To share with you the last part of the world?

  And even the queen in me would hardly go 1790

  So far off as to vanish. If I were patched

  And scrapped in what the sorriest fisher-wife

  In Orkney might give mumbling to a beggar,

  I doubt if oafs and yokels would annoy me

  More than I willed they should. Am I so old 1795

  And dull, so lean and waning, or what not,

  That you must hurry away to grasp and hoard

  The small effect of time I might have stolen

  From you and from a Light that where it lives

  Must live for ever? Where does history tell you 1800

  The Lord himself would seem in so great haste

  As you for your perfection? If our world —

  Your world and mine and Arthur’s as you say —

  Is going out now to make way for another,

  Why not before it goes, and I go with it, 1805

  Have yet one morsel more of life together,

  Before death sweeps the table and our few crumbs

  Of love are a few last ashes on a fire

  That cannot hurt your Vision, or burn long?

  You cannot warm your lonely fingers at it 1810

  For a great waste of time when I am dead:

  When I am dead you will be on your way,

  With maybe not so much as one remembrance

  Of all I was, to follow you and torment you.

  Some word of Bors may once have given color 1815

  To some few that I said, but they were true —

  Whether Bors told them first to me, or whether

  I told them first to Bors. The Light you saw

  Was not the Light of Rome; the word you had

  Of Rome was not the word of God — though Rome 1820

  Has refuge for the weary and heavy-laden.

  Were I to live too long I might seek Rome

  Myself, and be the happier when I found it.

  Meanwhile, am I to be no more to you

  Than a moon-shadow of a lonely stranger 1825

  Somewhere in Camelot? And is there no region

  In this poor fading world of Arthur’s now

  Where I may be again what I was once —

  Before I die? Should I live to be old,

  I shall have been long since too far away 1830

  For you to hate me then; and I shall know

  How old I am by seeing it in your eyes.”

  Her misery told itself in a sad laugh,

  And in a rueful twisting of her face

  That only beauty’s perilous privilege 1835

  Of injury would have yielded or suborned

  As hope’s infirm accessory while she prayed

  Through Lancelot to heaven for Lancelot.

  She looked away: “If I were God,” she said,

  “I should say, ‘Let them be as they have been. 1840

  A few more years will heap no vast account

  Against eternity, and all their love

  Was what I gave them. They brought on the end

  Of Arthur’s empire, which I wrought through Merlin

  For the world’s knowing of what kings and queens 1845

  Are made for; but they knew not what they did —

  Save as a price, and as a fear that love

  Might end in fear. It need not end that way,

  And they need fear no more for what I gave them;

  For it was I who gave them to each other.’ 1850

  If I were God, I should say that to you.”

  He saw tears quivering in her pleading eyes,

  But through them she could see, with a wild hope,

  That he was fighting. When he spoke, he smiled —

  Much as he might have smiled at her, she thought, 1855

  Had she been Gawaine, Gawaine having given

  To Lancelot, who yet would have him live,

  An obscure wound that would not heal or kill.

  “My life was living backward for the moment,”

  He said, still burying in the coals and ashes 1860

  Thoughts that he would not think. His tongue was dry,

  And each dry word he said was choking him

  As he said on: “I cannot ask of you

  That you be kind to me, but there’s a kindness

  That is your proper debt. Would you cajole 1865

  Your reason with a weary picturing

  On walls or on vain air of what your fancy,

  Like firelight, makes of nothing but itself?

  Do you not see that I go from you only

  Because you go from me? — because our path 1870

  Led where at last it had an end in havoc,

  As long we knew it must — as Arthur too,

  And Merlin knew it must? — as God knew it must?

  A power that I should not have said was mine —

  That was not mine, and is not mine — avails me 1875

  Strangely tonight, although you are here with me;

  And I see much in what has come to pass

  That is to be. The Light t
hat I have seen,

  As you say true, is not the light of Rome,

  Albeit the word of Rome that set you free 1880

  Was more than mine or the King’s. To flout that word

  Would sound the preparation of a terror

  To which a late small war on our account

  Were a king’s pastime and a queen’s annoyance;

  And that, for the good fortune of a world 1885

  As yet not over-fortuned, may not be.

  There may be war to come when you are gone,

  For I doubt yet Gawaine; but Rome will hold you,

  Hold you in Camelot. If there be more war,

  No fire of mine shall feed it, nor shall you 1890

  Be with me to endure it. You are free;

  And free, you are going home to Camelot.

  There is no other way than one for you,

  Nor is there more than one for me. We have lived,

  And we shall die. I thank you for my life. 1895

  Forgive me if I say no more tonight.”

  He rose, half blind with pity that was no longer

  The servant of his purpose or his will,

  To grope away somewhere among the shadows

  For wine to drench his throat and his dry tongue, 1900

  That had been saying he knew not what to her

  For whom his life-devouring love was now

  A scourge of mercy.

  Like a blue-eyed Medea

  Of white and gold, broken with grief and fear 1905

  And fury that shook her speechless while she waited,

  Yet left her calm enough for Lancelot

  To see her without seeing, she stood up

  To breathe and suffer. Fury could not live long,

  With grief and fear like hers and love like hers, 1910

  When speech came back: “No other way now than one?

  Free? Do you call me free? Do you mean by that

  There was never woman alive freer to live

  Than I am free to die? Do you call me free

  Because you are driven so near to death yourself 1915

  With weariness of me, and the sight of me,

  That you must use a crueller knife than ever,

  And this time at my heart, for me to watch

  Before you drive it home? For God’s sake, drive it!

  Drive it as often as you have the others, 1920

  And let the picture of each wound it makes

  On me be shown to women and men for ever;

  And the good few that know — let them reward you.

  I hear them, in such low and pitying words

  As only those who know, and are not many, 1925

  Are used to say: ‘The good knight Lancelot

  It was who drove the knife home to her heart,

  Rather than drive her home to Camelot.’

  Home! Free! Would you let me go there again —

  To be at home? — be free? To be his wife? 1930

  To live in his arms always, and so hate him

  That I could heap around him the same faggots

  That you put out with blood? Go home, you say?

  Home? — where I saw the black post waiting for me

  That morning? — saw those good men die for me — 1935

  Gareth and Gaheris, Lamorak’s brother Tor,

  And all the rest? Are men to die for me

  For ever? Is there water enough, do you think.

  Between this place and that for me to drown in?”

  “There is time enough, I think, between this hour 1940

  And some wise hour tomorrow, for you to sleep in.

  When you are safe again in Camelot,

  The King will not molest you or pursue you;

  The King will be a suave and chastened man.

  In Camelot you shall have no more to dread 1945

  Than you shall hear then of this rain that roars

  Tonight as if it would be roaring always.

  I do not ask you to forgive the faggots,

  Though I would have you do so for your peace.

  Only the wise who know may do so much, 1950

  And they, as you say truly, are not many.

  And I would say no more of this tonight.”

  “Then do not ask me for the one last thing

  That I shall give to God! I thought I died

  That morning. Why am I alive again, 1955

  To die again? Are you all done with me?

  Is there no longer something left of me

  That made you need me? Have I lost myself

  So fast that what a mirror says I am

  Is not what is, but only what was once? 1960

  Does half a year do that with us, I wonder,

  Or do I still have something that was mine

  That afternoon when I was in the sunset,

  Under the oak, and you were looking at me?

  Your look was not all sorrow for your going 1965

  To find the Light and leave me in the dark —

  But I am the daughter of Leodogran,

  And you are Lancelot, — and have a tongue

  To say what I may not…. Why must I go

  To Camelot when your kinsmen hold all France? 1970

  Why is there not some nook in some old house

  Where I might hide myself — with you or not?

  Is there no castle, or cabin, or cave in the woods?

  Yes, I could love the bats and owls, in France,

  A lifetime sooner than I could the King 1975

  That I shall see in Camelot, waiting there

  For me to cringe and beg of him again

  The dust of mercy, calling it holy bread.

  I wronged him, but he bought me with a name

  Too large for my king-father to relinquish — 1980

  Though I prayed him, and I prayed God aloud,

  To spare that crown. I called it crown enough

  To be my father’s child — until you came.

  And then there were no crowns or kings or fathers

  Under the sky. I saw nothing but you. 1985

  And you would whip me back to bury myself

  In Camelot, with a few slave maids and lackeys

  To be my grovelling court; and even their faces

  Would not hide half the story. Take me to France —

  To France or Egypt, — anywhere else on earth 1990

  Than Camelot! Is there not room in France

  For two more dots of mortals? — or for one? —

  For me alone? Let Lionel go with me —

  Or Bors. Let Bors go with me into France,

  And leave me there. And when you think of me, 1995

  Say Guinevere is in France, where she is happy;

  And you may say no more of her than that …

  Why do you not say something to me now —

  Before I go? Why do you look — and look?

  Why do you frown as if you thought me mad? 2000

  I am not mad — but I shall soon be mad,

  If I go back to Camelot where the King is.

  Lancelot!… Is there nothing left of me?

  Nothing of what you called your white and gold,

  And made so much of? Has it all gone by? 2005

  He must have been a lonely God who made

  Man in his image and then made only a woman!

  Poor fool she was! Poor Queen! Poor Guinevere!

  There were kings and bishops once, under her window

  Like children, and all scrambling for a flower. 2010

  Time was! — God help me, what am I saying now!

  Does a Queen’s memory wither away to that?

  Am I so dry as that? Am I a shell?

  Have I become so cheap as this?… I wonder

  Why the King cared!” She fell down on her knees 2015

  Crying, and held his knees with hungry fear.

  Over his folded arms, as over the ledge

  Of a storm-shaken parapet, he could see,
/>   Below him, like a tumbling flood of gold,

  The Queen’s hair with a crumpled foam of white 2020

  Around it: “Do you ask, as a child would,

  For France because it has a name? How long

  Do you conceive the Queen of the Christian world

  Would hide herself in France were she to go there?

  How long should Rome require to find her there? 2025

  And how long, Rome or not, would such a flower

  As you survive the unrooting and transplanting

  That you commend so ingenuously tonight?

  And if we shared your cave together, how long,

  And in the joy of what obscure seclusion, 2030

  If I may say it, were Lancelot of the Lake

  And Guinevere an unknown man and woman,

  For no eye to see twice? There are ways to France,

  But why pursue them for Rome’s interdict,

  And for a longer war? Your path is now 2035

  As open as mine is dark — or would be dark,

  Without the Light that once had blinded me

  To death, had I seen more. I shall see more,

  And I shall not be blind. I pray, moreover,

  That you be not so now. You are a Queen, 2040

  And you may be no other. You are too brave

  And kind and fair for men to cheer with lies.

  We cannot make one world of two, nor may we

  Count one life more than one. Could we go back

  To the old garden, we should not stay long; 2045

  The fruit that we should find would all be fallen,

  And have the taste of earth.”

  When she looked up,

  A tear fell on her forehead. “Take me away!”

  She cried. “Why do you do this? Why do you say this? 2050

  If you are sorry for me, take me away

  From Camelot! Send me away — drive me away —

  Only away from there! The King is there —

  And I may kill him if I see him there.

  Take me away — take me away to France! 2055

  And if I cannot hide myself in France,

  Then let me die in France!”

  He shook his head,

  Slowly, and raised her slowly in his arms,

  Holding her there; and they stood long together. 2060

  And there was no sound then of anything,

  Save a low moaning of a broken woman,

  And the cold roaring down of that long rain.

  All night the rain came down on Joyous Gard;

  And all night, there before the crumbling embers 2065

  That faded into feathery death-like dust,

  Lancelot sat and heard it. He saw not

  The fire that died, but he heard rain that fell