GUINEVERE IN ALMESBURY CONVENT
SHE pores the missal on her knee, Or, haply as she climbs the stair, Some sound, some odor sets her free, From the long days of fast and prayer; And all about comes Camelot.
At dusk she walks her garden gray, And hears the nightingales without, Maddening the marsh with Yesterday; And straight—an alien dusk about, And a hoarse word the king is not!
Clamor and dusk in Camelot! She speeding from the palace forth, By river-path and orchard plot, Toward the tall convent in the north, Set in its apple-trees apart.
She paces thus, and starts to find Her Almesbury lilies at her feet, Her nuns grown shadowy behind, And nightingales that sing so sweet The marsh is fain to break its heart!