In battle? Launcelot Launcelot Nothing glorious, my King. I rode in the forest on a winter’s day, Thinking my thoughts. A misty day it was With a pale sun, and red leaves underfoot. I let my horse pace on, lost in a muse; But, as it chanced, a hunter in those woods Was shooting at the deer, and aimed so ill His arrow found its quarry in my side. Guenevere Guenevere Ah! Launcelot Launcelot I fell. I knew no more. But for good hap, Some clown had tracked me to those muddy leaves, Me that had shaped a splendid field to die on— And found me—sorry venison——
Prev.
Back
Top