Sir Bors, Sir Balin, and Gawain, All Arthur's knights, and many mo; But these in battle had been slain Long years ago.
But when Morgan with lifted hand Moved down the hall, they louted low: For she was Queen of Shadowland, That woman of snow.
Then from Sir Kay she drew away, And cried on high all mockingly:-- "Behold, sir knights, the knave I bring, Who lay with me.
"Behold! I met him 'mid the furze: Beside him there he made me lie: Upon him, yea, there rests my curse: Now let him die!"
Then as one man those shadows raised Their brands, whereon the moon glanced gray: And clashing all strode from the wall Against Sir Kay.
And on his body, bent and bowed, The hundred blades as one blade fell: While over all rang long and loud The mirth of Hell.
Though red my blood hath left its trail For five far miles, I will not fail, As God in Heaven wills! The way was long through that black land.-- With sword on hip and horn in hand, At last before thy walls I stand, O Lady of the Hills!
No seneschal shall put to scorn The summons of my bugle-horn! No warder stern shall stay! Yea! God hath helped my strength too far, By bandit-caverned wood and scar, To give it pause now, or to bar My all-avenging way!
This hope still gives my body strength-- To kiss thy mouth and eyes at length Where all thy kin can see: Then, 'mid thy towers of crime and gloom, Sin-haunted as the Halls of Doom, To strike thee dead in that wild room Red-lit with revelry.
Madly I rode; nor once looked back, Before my face the world reeled, black With nightmare wind and rain. Witch-lights flared by me on the fen; And through the forest--was it then The eyes of wolves? or ghosts of men, That flamed and fled again?
Still on I rode. My way was clear From that wild time when, spear to spear, Deep in the wind-torn wood, I met him!... Dead he lies beneath Your trysting oak. I clenched my teeth And rode. My wound scarce let me breathe, That filled my eyes with blood.
And here I am. The blood may blind My eyesight still!... but I will find Thee through some inner eye! For God--He hath this thing in care!-- Yea! I will kiss again thy hair, Then tell thee of thy leman there, And smite thee dead--and die.
The moon looks cold On the withered wold; The wind blows fierce and free: The thin snow sifts And stings and drifts, Blown by the haunted tree.