



Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive.)









MERLIN




  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  _POEMS_

  CAPTAIN CRAIG
  THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT
  THE TOWN DOWN THE RIVER
  THE MAN AGAINST THE SKY

  _PLAYS_

  VAN ZORN. A Comedy in Three Acts
  THE PORCUPINE. A Drama in Three Acts




  MERLIN

  _A Poem_


  BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON


  New York
  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  1917
  _All rights reserved_




  COPYRIGHT, 1917,
  By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

  Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1917.


  Norwood Press
  J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
  Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.




To GEORGE BURNHAM




MERLIN


I

  "Gawaine, Gawaine, what look ye for to see,
  So far beyond the faint edge of the world?
  D'ye look to see the lady Vivian,
  Pursued by divers ominous vile demons
  That have another king more fierce than ours?
  Or think ye that if ye look far enough
  And hard enough into the feathery west
  Ye'll have a glimmer of the Grail itself?
  And if ye look for neither Grail nor lady,
  What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?"
  So Dagonet, whom Arthur made a knight
  Because he loved him as he laughed at him,
  Intoned his idle presence on a day
  To Gawaine, who had thought himself alone,
  Had there been in him thought of anything
  Save what was murmured now in Camelot
  Of Merlin's hushed and all but unconfirmed
  Appearance out of Brittany. It was heard
  At first there was a ghost in Arthur's palace,
  But soon among the scullions and anon
  Among the knights a firmer credit held
  All tongues from uttering what all glances told--
  Though not for long. Gawaine, this afternoon,
  Fearing he might say more to Lancelot
  Of Merlin's rumor-laden resurrection
  Than Lancelot would have an ear to cherish,
  Had sauntered off with his imagination
  To Merlin's Rock, where now there was no Merlin
  To meditate upon a whispering town
  Below him in the silence.--Once he said
  To Gawaine: "You are young; and that being so,
  Behold the shining city of our dreams
  And of our King."--"Long live the King," said Gawaine.--
  "Long live the King," said Merlin after him;
  "Better for me that I shall not be King;
  Wherefore I say again, Long live the King,
  And add, God save him, also, and all kings--
  All kings and queens. I speak in general.
  Kings have I known that were but weary men
  With no stout appetite for more than peace
  That was not made for them."--"Nor were they made
  For kings," Gawaine said, laughing.--"You are young
  Gawaine, and you may one day hold the world
  Between your fingers, knowing not what it is
  That you are holding. Better for you and me,
  I think, that we shall not be kings."

                                      Gawaine,
  Remembering Merlin's words of long ago,
  Frowned as he thought, and having frowned again,
  He smiled and threw an acorn at a lizard:
  "There's more afoot and in the air to-day
  Than what is good for Camelot. Merlin
  May or may not know all, but he said well
  To say to me that he would not be King.
  No more would I be King." Far down he gazed
  On Camelot, until he made of it
  A phantom town of many stillnesses,
  Not reared for men to dwell in, or for kings
  To reign in, without omens and obscure
  Familiars to bring terror to their days;
  For though a knight, and one as hard at arms
  As any, save the fate-begotten few
  That all acknowledged or in envy loathed,
  He felt a foreign sort of creeping up
  And down him, as of moist things in the dark,--
  When Dagonet, coming on him unawares,
  Presuming on his title of Sir Fool,
  Addressed him and crooned on till he was done:
  "What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?"

  "Sir Dagonet, you best and wariest
  Of all dishonest men, I look through Time,
  For sight of what it is that is to be.
  I look to see it, though I see it not.
  I see a town down there that holds a king,
  And over it I see a few small clouds--
  Like feathers in the west, as you observe;
  And I shall see no more this afternoon
  Than what there is around us every day,
  Unless you have a skill that I have not
  To ferret the invisible for rats."

  "If you see what's around us every day,
  You need no other showing to go mad.
  Remember that and take it home with you;
  And say tonight, 'I had it of a fool--
  With no immediate obliquity
  For this one or for that one, or for me.'"

  Gawaine, having risen, eyed the fool curiously:
  "I'll not forget I had it of a knight,
  Whose only folly is to fool himself;
  And as for making other men to laugh,
  And so forget their sins and selves a little,
  There's no great folly there. So keep it up,
  As long as you've a legend or a song,
  And have whatever sport of us you like
  Till havoc is the word and we fall howling.
  For I've a guess there may not be so loud
  A sound of laughing here in Camelot
  When Merlin goes again to his gay grave
  In Brittany. To mention lesser terrors,
  Men say his beard is gone."

                                "Do men say that?"
  A twitch of an impatient weariness
  Played for a moment over the lean face
  Of Dagonet, who reasoned inwardly:
  "The friendly zeal of this inquiring knight
  Will overtake his tact and leave it squealing,
  One of these days."--Gawaine looked hard at him:
  "If I be too familiar with a fool,
  I'm on the way to be another fool,"
  He mused, and owned a rueful qualm within him:
  "Yes, Dagonet," he ventured, with a laugh,
  "Men tell me that his beard has vanished wholly,
  And that he shines now as the Lord's anointed,
  And wears the valiance of an ageless youth
  Crowned with a glory of eternal peace."

  Dagonet, smiling strangely, shook his head:
  "I grant your valiance of a kind of youth
  To Merlin, but your crown of peace I question;
  For, though I know no more than any churl
  Who pinches any chambermaid soever
  In the King's palace, I look not to Merlin
  For peace, when out of his peculiar tomb
  He comes again to Camelot. Time swings
  A mighty scythe, and some day all your peace
  Goes down before its edge like so much clover.
  No, it is not for peace that Merlin comes,
  Without a trumpet--and without a beard,
  If what you say men say of him be true--
  Nor yet for sudden war."

                            Gawaine, for a moment,
  Met then the ambiguous gaze of Dagonet,
  And, making nothing of it, looked abroad
  As if at something cheerful on all sides,
  And back again to the fool's unasking eyes:
  "Well, Dagonet, if Merlin would have peace,
  Let Merlin stay away from Brittany,"
  Said he, with admiration for the man
  Whom Folly called a fool: "And we have known him;
  We knew him once when he knew everything."

  "He knew as much as God would let him know
  Until he met the lady Vivian.
  I tell you that, for the world knows all that;
  Also it knows he told the King one day
  That he was to be buried, and alive,
  In Brittany; and that the King should see
  The face of him no more. Then Merlin sailed
  Away to Vivian in Broceliande,
  Where now she crowns him and herself with flowers,
  And feeds him fruits and wines and many foods
  Of many savors, and sweet ortolans.
  Wise books of every lore of every land
  Are there to fill his days, if he require them,
  And there are players of all instruments--
  Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols; and she sings
  To Merlin, till he trembles in her arms
  And there forgets that any town alive
  Had ever such a name as Camelot.
  So Vivian holds him with her love, they say,
  And he, who has no age, has not grown old.
  I swear to nothing, but that's what they say.
  That's being buried in Broceliande
  For too much wisdom and clairvoyancy.
  But you and all who live, Gawaine, have heard
  This tale, or many like it, more than once;
  And you must know that Love, when Love invites
  Philosophy to play, plays high and wins,
  Or low and loses. And you say to me,
  'If Merlin would have peace, let Merlin stay
  Away from Brittany.' Gawaine, you are young,
  And Merlin's in his grave."

                                "Merlin said once
  That I was young, and it's a joy for me
  That I am here to listen while you say it.
  Young or not young, if that be burial,
  May I be buried long before I die.
  I might be worse than young; I might be old."--
  Dagonet answered, and without a smile:
  "Somehow I fancy Merlin saying that;
  A fancy--a mere fancy." Then he smiled:
  "And such a doom as his may be for you,
  Gawaine, should your untiring divination
  Delve in the veiled eternal mysteries
  Too far to be a pleasure for the Lord.
  And when you stake your wisdom for a woman,
  Compute the woman to be worth a grave,
  As Merlin did, and say no more about it.
  But Vivian, she played high. Oh, very high!
  Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols,--and her love.
  Gawaine, farewell."

                        "Farewell, Sir Dagonet,
  And may the devil take you presently."
  He followed with a vexed and envious eye,
  And with an arid laugh, Sir Dagonet's
  Departure, till his gaunt obscurity
  Was cloaked and lost amid the glimmering trees.
  "Poor fool!" he murmured. "Or am I the fool?
  With all my fast ascendency in arms,
  That ominous clown is nearer to the King
  Than I am--yet; and God knows what he knows,
  And what his wits infer from what he sees
  And feels and hears. I wonder what he knows
  Of Lancelot, or what I might know now,
  Could I have sunk myself to sound a fool
  To springe a friend.... No, I like not this day.
  There's a cloud coming over Camelot
  Larger than any that is in the sky,--
  Or Merlin would be still in Brittany,
  With Vivian and the viols. It's all too strange."

  And later, when descending to the city,
  Through unavailing casements he could hear
  The roaring of a mighty voice within,
  Confirming fervidly his own conviction:
  "It's all too strange, and half the world's half crazy!"--
  He scowled: "Well, I agree with Lamorak."
  He frowned, and passed: "And I like not this day."


II

  Sir Lamorak, the man of oak and iron,
  Had with him now, as a care-laden guest,
  Sir Bedivere, a man whom Arthur loved
  As he had loved no man save Lancelot.
  Like one whose late-flown shaft of argument
  Had glanced and fallen afield innocuously,
  He turned upon his host a sudden eye
  That met from Lamorak's an even shaft
  Of native and unused authority;
  And each man held the other till at length
  Each turned away, shutting his heavy jaws
  Again together, prisoning thus two tongues
  That might forget and might not be forgiven.
  Then Bedivere, to find a plain way out,
  Said, "Lamorak, let us drink to some one here,
  And end this dryness. Who shall it be--the King,
  The Queen, or Lancelot?"--"Merlin," Lamorak growled;
  And then there were more wrinkles round his eyes
  Than Bedivere had said were possible.
  "There's no refusal in me now for that,"
  The guest replied; "so, 'Merlin' let it be.
  We've not yet seen him, but if he be here,
  And even if he should not be here, say 'Merlin.'"
  They drank to the unseen from two new tankards,
  And fell straightway to sighing for the past,
  And what was yet before them. Silence laid
  A cogent finger on the lips of each
  Impatient veteran, whose hard hands lay clenched
  And restless on his midriff, until words
  Were stronger than strong Lamorak:

                                      "Bedivere,"
  Began the solid host, "you may as well
  Say now as at another time hereafter
  That all your certainties have bruises on 'em,
  And all your pestilent asseverations
  Will never make a man a salamander--
  Who's born, as we are told, so fire won't bite him,--
  Or a slippery queen a nun who counts and burns
  Herself to nothing with her beads and candles.
  There's nature, and what's in us, to be sifted
  Before we know ourselves, or any man
  Or woman that God suffers to be born.
  That's how I speak; and while you strain your mazzard,
  Like Father Jove, big with a new Minerva,
  We'll say, to pass the time, that I speak well.
  God's fish! The King had eyes; and Lancelot
  Won't ride home to his mother, for she's dead.
  The story is that Merlin warned the King
  Of what's come now to pass; and I believe it.
  And Arthur, he being Arthur and a king,
  Has made a more pernicious mess than one,
  We're told, for being so great and amorous:
  It's that unwholesome and inclement cub
  Young Modred I'd see first in hell before
  I'd hang too high the Queen or Lancelot;
  The King, if one may say it, set the pace,
  And we've two strapping bastards here to prove it.
  Young Borre, he's well enough; but as for Modred,
  I squirm as often as I look at him.
  And there again did Merlin warn the King,
  The story goes abroad; and I believe it."

  Sir Bedivere, as one who caught no more
  Than what he would of Lamorak's outpouring,
  Inclined his grizzled head and closed his eyes
  Before he sighed and rubbed his beard and spoke:
  "For all I know to make it otherwise,
  The Queen may be a nun some day or other;
  I'd pray to God for such a thing to be,
  If prayer for that were not a mockery.
  We're late now for much praying, Lamorak,
  When you and I can feel upon our faces
  A wind that has been blowing over ruins
  That we had said were castles and high towers--
  Till Merlin, or the spirit of him, came
  As the dead come in dreams. I saw the King
  This morning, and I saw his face. Therefore,
  I tell you, if a state shall have a king,
  The king must have the state, and be the state;
  Or then shall we have neither king nor state,
  But bones and ashes, and high towers all fallen:
  And we shall have, where late there was a kingdom,
  A dusty wreck of what was once a glory--
  A wilderness whereon to crouch and mourn
  And moralize, or else to build once more
  For something better or for something worse.
  Therefore again, I say that Lancelot
  Has wrought a potent wrong upon the King,
  And all who serve and recognize the King,
  And all who follow him and all who love him.
  Whatever the stormy faults he may have had,
  To look on him today is to forget them;
  And if it be too late for sorrow now
  To save him--for it was a broken man
  I saw this morning, and a broken king--
  The God who sets a day for desolation
  Will not forsake him in Avilion,
  Or whatsoever shadowy land there be
  Where peace awaits him on its healing shores."

  Sir Lamorak, shifting in his oaken chair,
  Growled like a dog and shook himself like one:
  "For the stone-chested, helmet-cracking knight
  That you are known to be from Lyonnesse
  To northward, Bedivere, you fol-de-rol
  When days are rancid, and you fiddle-faddle
  More like a woman than a man with hands
  Fit for the smiting of a crazy giant
  With armor an inch thick, as we all know
  You are, when you're not sermonizing at us.
  As for the King, I say the King, no doubt,
  Is angry, sorry, and all sorts of things,
  For Lancelot, and for his easy Queen,
  Whom he took knowing she'd thrown sparks already
  On that same piece of tinder, Lancelot,
  Who fetched her with him from Leodogran
  Because the King--God save poor human reason!--
  Would prove to Merlin, who knew everything
  Worth knowing in those days, that he was wrong.
  I'll drink now and be quiet,--but, by God,
  I'll have to tell you, Brother Bedivere,
  Once more, to make you listen properly,
  That crowns and orders, and high palaces,
  And all the manifold ingredients
  Of this good solid kingdom, where we sit
  And spit now at each other with our eyes,
  Will not go rolling down to hell just yet
  Because a pretty woman is a fool.
  And here's Kay coming with his fiddle face
  As long now as two fiddles. Sit ye down,
  Sir Man, and tell us everything you know
  Of Merlin--or his ghost without a beard.
  What mostly is it?"

                        Sir Kay, the seneschal,
  Sat wearily while he gazed upon the two:
  "To you it mostly is, if I err not,
  That what you hear of Merlin's coming back
  Is nothing more or less than heavy truth.
  But ask me nothing of the Queen, I say,
  For I know nothing. All I know of her
  Is what her eyes have told the silences
  That now attend her; and that her estate
  Is one for less complacent execration
  Than quips and innuendoes of the city
  Would augur for her sin--if there be sin--
  Or for her name--if now she have a name.
  And where, I say, is this to lead the King,
  And after him, the kingdom and ourselves?
  Here be we, three men of a certain strength
  And some confessed intelligence, who know
  That Merlin has come out of Brittany--
  Out of his grave, as he would say it for us--
  Because the King has now a desperation
  More strong upon him than a woman's net
  Was over Merlin--for now Merlin's here,
  And two of us who knew him know how well
  His wisdom, if he have it any longer,
  Will by this hour have sounded and appraised
  The grief and wrath and anguish of the King,
  Requiring mercy and inspiring fear
  Lest he forego the vigil now most urgent,
  And leave unwatched a cranny where some worm
  Or serpent may come in to speculate."

  "I know your worm, and his worm's name is Modred--
  Albeit the streets are not yet saying so,"
  Said Lamorak, as he lowered his wrath and laughed
  A sort of poisonous apology
  To Kay: "And in the meantime, I'll be gyved!
  Here's Bedivere a-wailing for the King,
  And you, Kay, with a moist eye for the Queen.
  I think I'll blow a horn for Lancelot;
  For by my soul a man's in sorry case
  When Guineveres are out with eyes to scorch him:
  I'm not so ancient or so frozen certain
  That I'd ride horses down to skeletons
  If she were after me. Has Merlin seen him--
  This Lancelot, this Queen-fed friend of ours?"

  Kay answered sighing, with a lonely scowl:
  "The picture that I conjure leaves him out;
  The King and Merlin are this hour together,
  And I can say no more; for I know nothing.
  But how the King persuaded or beguiled
  The stricken wizard from across the water
  Outriddles my poor wits. It's all too strange."

  "It's all too strange, and half the world's half crazy!"
  Roared Lamorak, forgetting once again
  The devastating carriage of his voice.
  "Is the King sick?" he said, more quietly;
  "Is he to let one damned scratch be enough
  To paralyze the force that heretofore
  Would operate a way through hell and iron,
  And iron already slimy with his blood?
  Is the King blind--with Modred watching him?
  Does he forget the crown for Lancelot?
  Does he forget that every woman mewing
  Shall some day be a handful of small ashes?"

  "You speak as one for whom the god of Love
  Has yet a mighty trap in preparation.
  We know you, Lamorak," said Bedivere:
  "We know you for a short man, Lamorak,--
  In deeds, if not in inches or in words;
  But there are fens and heights and distances
  That your capricious ranging has not yet
  Essayed in this weird region of man's love.
  Forgive me, Lamorak, but your words are words.
  Your deeds are what they are; and ages hence
  Will men remember your illustriousness,
  If there be gratitude in history.
  For me, I see the shadow of the end,
  Wherein to serve King Arthur to the end,
  And, if God have it so, to see the Grail
  Before I die."

                But Lamorak shook his head:
  "See what you will, or what you may. For me,
  I see no other than a stinking mess--
  With Modred stirring it, and Agravaine
  Spattering Camelot with as much of it
  As he can throw. The Devil got somehow
  Into God's workshop once upon a time,
  And out of the red clay that he found there
  He made a shape like Modred, and another
  As like as eyes are to this Agravaine.
  'I never made 'em,' said the good Lord God,
  'But let 'em go, and see what comes of 'em.'
  And that's what we're to do. As for the Grail,
  I've never worried it, and so the Grail
  Has never worried me."

                            Kay sighed. "I see
  With Bedivere the coming of the end,"
  He murmured; "for the King I saw today
  Was not, nor shall he ever be again,
  The King we knew. I say the King is dead;
  The man is living, but the King is dead.
  The wheel is broken."

                        "Tut!" said Lamorak;
  "There are no dead kings yet in Camelot;
  But there is Modred who is hatching ruin,--
  And when it hatches I may not be here.
  There's Gawaine too, and he does not forget
  My father, who killed his. King Arthur's house
  Has more division in it than I like
  In houses; and if Modred's aim be good
  For backs like mine, I'm not long for the scene."


III

  King Arthur, as he paced a lonely floor
  That rolled a muffled echo, as he fancied,
  All through the palace and out through the world,
  Might now have wondered hard, could he have heard
  Sir Lamorak's apathetic disregard
  Of what Fate's knocking made so manifest
  And ominous to others near the King--
  If any, indeed, were near him at this hour
  Save Merlin, once the wisest of all men,
  And weary Dagonet, whom he had made
  A knight for love of him and his abused
  Integrity. He might have wondered hard
  And wondered much; and after wondering,
  He might have summoned, with as little heart
  As he had now for crowns, the fond, lost Merlin,
  Whose Nemesis had made of him a slave,
  A man of dalliance, and a sybarite.

  "Men change in Brittany, Merlin," said the King;
  And even his grief had strife to freeze again
  A dreary smile for the transmuted seer
  Now robed in heavy wealth of purple silk,
  With frogs and foreign tassels. On his face,
  Too smooth now for a wizard or a sage,
  Lay written, for the King's remembering eyes,
  A pathos of a lost authority
  Long faded, and unconscionably gone;
  And on the King's heart lay a sudden cold:
  "I might as well have left him in his grave,
  As he would say it, saying what was true,--
  As death is true. This Merlin is not mine,
  But Vivian's. My crown is less than hers,
  And I am less than woman to this man."

  Then Merlin, as one reading Arthur's words
  On viewless tablets in the air before him:
  "Now, Arthur, since you are a child of mine--
  A foster-child, and that's a kind of child--
  Be not from hearsay or despair too eager
  To dash your meat with bitter seasoning,
  So none that are more famished than yourself
  Shall have what you refuse. For you are King,
  And if you starve yourself, you starve the state;
  And then by sundry looks and silences
  Of those you loved, and by the lax regard
  Of those you knew for fawning enemies,
  You may learn soon that you are King no more,
  But a slack, blasted, and sad-fronted man,
  Made sadder with a crown. No other friend
  Than I could say this to you, and say more;
  And if you bid me say no more, so be it."

  The King, who sat with folded arms, now bowed
  His head and felt, unfought and all aflame
  Like immanent hell-fire, the wretchedness
  That only those who are to lead may feel--
  And only they when they are maimed and worn
  Too sore to covet without shuddering
  The fixed impending eminence where death
  Itself were victory, could they but lead
  Unbitten by the serpents they had fed.
  Turning, he spoke: "Merlin, you say the truth:
  There is no man who could say more to me
  Today, or say so much to me, and live.
  But you are Merlin still, or part of him;
  I did you wrong when I thought otherwise,
  And I am sorry now. Say what you will.
  We are alone, and I shall be alone
  As long as Time shall hide a reason here
  For me to stay in this infested world
  Where I have sinned and erred and heeded not
  Your counsel; and where you yourself--God save us!--
  Have gone down smiling to the smaller life
  That you and your incongruous laughter called
  Your living grave. God save us all, Merlin,
  When you, the seer, the founder, and the prophet,
  May throw the gold of your immortal treasure
  Back to the God that gave it, and then laugh
  Because a woman has you in her arms ...
  Why do you sting me now with a small hive
  Of words that are all poison? I do not ask
  Much honey; but why poison me for nothing,
  And with a venom that I know already
  As I know crowns and wars? Why tell a king--
  A poor, foiled, flouted, miserable king--
  That if he lets rats eat his fingers off
  He'll have no fingers to fight battles with?
  I know as much as that, for I am still
  A king--who thought himself a little less
  Than God; a king who built him palaces
  On sand and mud, and hears them crumbling now,
  And sees them tottering, as he knew they must.
  You are the man who made me to be King--
  Therefore, say anything."

                                Merlin, stricken deep
  With pity that was old, being born of old
  Foreshadowings, made answer to the King:
  "This coil of Lancelot and Guinevere
  Is not for any mortal to undo,
  Or to deny, or to make otherwise;
  But your most violent years are on their way
  To days, and to a sounding of loud hours
  That are to strike for war. Let not the time
  Between this hour and then be lost in fears,
  Or told in obscurations and vain faith
  In what has been your long security;
  For should your force be slower then than hate,
  And your regret be sharper than your sight,
  And your remorse fall heavier than your sword,--
  Then say farewell to Camelot, and the crown.
  But say not you have lost, or failed in aught
  Your golden horoscope of imperfection
  Has held in starry words that I have read.
  I see no farther now than I saw then,
  For no man shall be given of everything
  Together in one life; yet I may say
  The time is imminent when he shall come
  For whom I founded the Siege Perilous;
  And he shall be too much a living part
  Of what he brings, and what he burns away in,
  To be for long a vexed inhabitant
  Of this mad realm of stains and lower trials.
  And here the ways of God again are mixed:
  For this new knight who is to find the Grail
  For you, and for the least who pray for you
  In such lost coombs and hollows of the world
  As you have never entered, is to be
  The son of him you trusted--Lancelot,
  Of all who ever jeopardized a throne
  Sure the most evil-fated, saving one,
  Your son, begotten, though you knew not then
  Your leman was your sister, of Morgause;
  For it is Modred now, not Lancelot,
  Whose native hate plans your annihilation--
  Though he may smile till he be sick, and swear
  Allegiance to an unforgiven father
  Until at last he shake an empty tongue
  Talked out with too much lying--though his lies
  Will have a truth to steer them. Trust him not,
  For unto you the father, he the son
  Is like enough to be the last of terrors--
  If in a field of time that looms to you
  Far larger than it is you fail to plant
  And harvest the old seeds of what I say,
  And so be nourished and adept again
  For what may come to be. But Lancelot
  Will have you first; and you need starve no more
  For the Queen's love, the love that never was.
  Your Queen is now your Kingdom, and hereafter
  Let no man take it from you, or you die.
  Let no man take it from you for a day;
  For days are long when we are far from what
  We love, and mischief's other name is distance.
  Let that be all, for I can say no more;
  Not even to Blaise the Hermit, were he living,
  Could I say more than I have given you now
  To hear; and he alone was my confessor."

  The King arose and paced the floor again.
  "I get gray comfort of dark words," he said;
  "But tell me not that you can say no more:
  You can, for I can hear you saying it.
  Yet I'll not ask for more. I have enough--
  Until my new knight comes to prove and find
  The promise and the glory of the Grail,
  Though I shall see no Grail. For I have built
  On sand and mud, and I shall see no Grail."--
  "Nor I," said Merlin. "Once I dreamed of it,
  But I was buried. I shall see no Grail,
  Nor would I have it otherwise. I saw
  Too much, and that was never good for man.
  The man who goes alone too far goes mad--
  In one way or another. God knew best,
  And he knows what is coming yet for me.
  I do not ask. Like you, I have enough."

  That night King Arthur's apprehension found
  In Merlin an obscure and restive guest,
  Whose only thought was on the hour of dawn,
  When he should see the last of Camelot
  And ride again for Brittany; and what words
  Were said before the King was left alone
  Were only darker for reiteration.
  They parted, all provision made secure
  For Merlin's early convoy to the coast,
  And Arthur tramped the past. The loneliness
  Of kings, around him like the unseen dead,
  Lay everywhere; and he was loath to move,
  As if in fear to meet with his cold hand
  The touch of something colder. Then a whim,
  Begotten of intolerable doubt,
  Seized him and stung him until he was asking
  If any longer lived among his knights
  A man to trust as once he trusted all,
  And Lancelot more than all. "And it is he
  Who is to have me first," so Merlin says,--
  "As if he had me not in hell already.
  Lancelot! Lancelot!" He cursed the tears
  That cooled his misery, and then he asked
  Himself again if he had one to trust
  Among his knights, till even Bedivere,
  Tor, Bors, and Percival, rough Lamorak,
  Griflet, and Gareth, and gay Gawaine, all
  Were dubious knaves,--or they were like to be,
  For cause to make them so; and he had made
  Himself to be the cause. "God set me right,
  Before this folly carry me on farther,"
  He murmured; and he smiled unhappily,
  Though fondly, as he thought: "Yes, there is one
  Whom I may trust with even my soul's last shred;
  And Dagonet will sing for me tonight
  An old song, not too merry or too sad."
  When Dagonet, having entered, stood before
  The King as one affrighted, the King smiled:
  "You think because I call for you so late
  That I am angry, Dagonet? Why so?
  Have you been saying what I say to you,
  And telling men that you brought Merlin here?
  No? So I fancied; and if you report
  No syllable of anything I speak,
  You will have no regrets, and I no anger.
  What word of Merlin was abroad today?"

  "Today have I heard no man save Gawaine,
  And to him I said only what all men
  Are saying to their neighbors. They believe
  That you have Merlin here, and that his coming
  Denotes no good. Gawaine was curious,
  But ever mindful of your majesty.
  He pressed me not, and we made light of it."

  "Gawaine, I fear, makes light of everything,"
  The King said, looking down. "Sometimes I wish
  I had a full Round Table of Gawaines.
  But that's a freak of midnight,--never mind it.
  Sing me a song--one of those endless things
  That Merlin liked of old, when men were younger
  And there were more stars twinkling in the sky.
  I see no stars that are alive tonight,
  And I am not the king of sleep. So then,
  Sing me an old song."

                        Dagonet's quick eye
  Caught sorrow in the King's; and he knew more,
  In a fool's way, than even the King himself
  Of what was hovering over Camelot.
  "O King," he said, "I cannot sing tonight.
  If you command me I shall try to sing,
  But I shall fail; for there are no songs now
  In my old throat, or even in these poor strings
  That I can hardly follow with my fingers.
  Forgive me--kill me--but I cannot sing."
  Dagonet fell down then on both his knees
  And shook there while he clutched the King's cold hand
  And wept for what he knew.

                                  "There, Dagonet;
  I shall not kill my knight, or make him sing.
  No more; get up, and get you off to bed.
  There'll be another time for you to sing,
  So get you to your covers and sleep well."
  Alone again, the King said, bitterly:
  "Yes, I have one friend left, and they who know
  As much of him as of themselves believe
  That he's a fool. Poor Dagonet's a fool.
  And if he be a fool, what else am I
  Than one fool more to make the world complete?
  'The love that never was!' ... Fool, fool, fool, fool!"

  The King was long awake. No covenant
  With peace was his tonight; and he knew sleep
  As he knew the cold eyes of Guinevere
  That yesterday had stabbed him, having first
  On Lancelot's name struck fire, and left him then
  As now they left him--with a wounded heart,
  A wounded pride, and a sickening pang worse yet
  Of lost possession. He thought wearily
  Of watchers by the dead, late wayfarers,
  Rough-handed mariners on ships at sea,
  Lone-yawning sentries, wastrels, and all others
  Who might be saying somewhere to themselves,
  "The King is now asleep in Camelot;
  God save the King."--"God save the King, indeed,
  If there be now a king to save," he said.
  Then he saw giants rising in the dark,
  Born horribly of memories and new fears
  That in the gray-lit irony of dawn
  Were partly to fade out and be forgotten;
  And then there might be sleep, and for a time
  There might again be peace. His head was hot
  And throbbing; but the rest of him was cold,
  As he lay staring hard where nothing stood,
  And hearing what was not, even while he saw
  And heard, like dust and thunder far away,
  The coming confirmation of the words
  Of him who saw so much and feared so little
  Of all that was to be. No spoken doom
  That ever chilled the last night of a felon
  Prepared a dragging anguish more profound
  And absolute than Arthur, in these hours,
  Made out of darkness and of Merlin's words;
  No tide that ever crashed on Lyonnesse
  Drove echoes inland that were lonelier
  For widowed ears among the fisher-folk,
  Than for the King were memories tonight
  Of old illusions that were dead for ever.


IV

  The tortured King--seeing Merlin wholly meshed
  In his defection, even to indifference,
  And all the while attended and exalted
  By some unfathomable obscurity
  Of divination, where the Grail, unseen,
  Broke yet the darkness where a king saw nothing--
  Feared now the lady Vivian more than Fate;
  For now he knew that Modred, Lancelot,
  The Queen, the King, the Kingdom, and the World,
  Were less to Merlin, who had made him King,
  Than one small woman in Broceliande.
  Whereas the lady Vivian, seeing Merlin
  Acclaimed and tempted and allured again
  To service in his old magnificence,
  Feared now King Arthur more than storms and robbers;
  For Merlin, though he knew himself immune
  To no least whispered little wish of hers
  That might afflict his ear with ecstasy,
  Had yet sufficient of his old command
  Of all around him to invest an eye
  With quiet lightning, and a spoken word
  With easy thunder, so accomplishing
  A profit and a pastime for himself--
  And for the lady Vivian, when her guile
  Outlived at intervals her graciousness;
  And this equipment of uncertainty,
  Which now had gone away with him to Britain
  With Dagonet, so plagued her memory
  That soon a phantom brood of goblin doubts
  Inhabited his absence, which had else
  Been empty waiting and a few brave fears,
  And a few more, she knew, that were not brave,
  Or long to be disowned, or manageable.
  She thought of him as he had looked at her
  When first he had acquainted her alarm
  At sight of the King's letter with its import;
  And she remembered now his very words:
  "The King believes today as in his boyhood
  That I am Fate," he said; and when they parted
  She had not even asked him not to go;
  She might as well, she thought, have bid the wind
  Throw no more clouds across a lonely sky
  Between her and the moon,--so great he seemed
  In his oppressed solemnity, and she,
  In her excess of wrong imagining,
  So trivial in an hour, and, after all
  A creature of a smaller consequence
  Than kings to Merlin, who made kings and kingdoms
  And had them as a father; and so she feared
  King Arthur more than robbers while she waited
  For Merlin's promise to fulfil itself,
  And for the rest that was to follow after:
  "He said he would come back, and so he will.
  He will because he must, and he is Merlin,
  The master of the world--or so he was;
  And he is coming back again to me
  Because he must and I am Vivian.
  It's all as easy as two added numbers:
  Some day I'll hear him ringing at the gate,
  As he rang on that morning in the spring,
  Ten years ago; and I shall have him then
  For ever. He shall never go away
  Though kings come walking on their hands and knees
  To take him on their backs." When Merlin came,
  She told him that, and laughed; and he said strangely:
  "Be glad or sorry, but no kings are coming.
  Not Arthur, surely; for now Arthur knows
  That I am less than Fate."

                              Ten years ago
  The King had heard, with unbelieving ears
  At first, what Merlin said would be the last
  Reiteration of his going down
  To find a living grave in Brittany:
  "Buried alive I told you I should be,
  By love made little and by woman shorn,
  Like Samson, of my glory; and the time
  Is now at hand. I follow in the morning
  Where I am led. I see behind me now
  The last of crossways, and I see before me
  A straight and final highway to the end
  Of all my divination. You are King,
  And in your kingdom I am what I was.
  Wherever I have warned you, see as far
  As I have seen; for I have shown the worst
  There is to see. Require no more of me,
  For I can be no more than what I was."
  So, on the morrow, the King said farewell;
  And he was never more to Merlin's eye
  The King than at that hour; for Merlin knew
  How much was going out of Arthur's life
  With him, as he went southward to the sea.

  Over the waves and into Brittany
  Went Merlin, to Broceliande. Gay birds
  Were singing high to greet him all along
  A broad and sanded woodland avenue
  That led him on forever, so he thought,
  Until at last there was an end of it;
  And at the end there was a gate of iron,
  Wrought heavily and invidiously barred.
  He pulled a cord that rang somewhere a bell
  Of many echoes, and sat down to rest,
  Outside the keeper's house, upon a bench
  Of carven stone that might for centuries
  Have waited there in silence to receive him.
  The birds were singing still; leaves flashed and swung
  Before him in the sunlight; a soft breeze
  Made intermittent whisperings around him
  Of love and fate and danger, and faint waves
  Of many sweetly-stinging fragile odors
  Broke lightly as they touched him; cherry-boughs
  Above him snowed white petals down upon him,
  And under their slow falling Merlin smiled
  Contentedly, as one who contemplates
  No longer fear, confusion, or regret,
  May smile at ruin or at revelation.

  A stately fellow with a forest air
  Now hailed him from within, with searching words
  And curious looks, till Merlin's glowing eye
  Transfixed him and he flinched: "My compliments
  And homage to the lady Vivian.
  Say Merlin from King Arthur's Court is here,
  A pilgrim and a stranger in appearance,
  Though in effect her friend and humble servant.
  Convey to her my speech as I have said it,
  Without abbreviation or delay,
  And so deserve my gratitude forever."
  "But Merlin?" the man stammered; "Merlin? Merlin?"--
  "One Merlin is enough. I know no other.
  Now go you to the lady Vivian
  And bring to me her word, for I am weary."
  Still smiling at the cherry-blossoms falling
  Down on him and around him in the sunlight,
  He waited, never moving, never glancing
  This way or that, until his messenger
  Came jingling into vision, weighed with keys,
  And inly shaken with much wondering
  At this great wizard's coming unannounced
  And unattended. When the way was open
  The stately messenger, now bowing low
  In reverence and awe, bade Merlin enter;
  And Merlin, having entered, heard the gate
  Clang back behind him; and he swore no gate
  Like that had ever clanged in Camelot,
  Or any other place if not in hell.
  "I may be dead; and this good fellow here,
  With all his keys," he thought, "may be the Devil,--
  Though I were loath to say so, for the keys
  Would make him rather more akin to Peter;
  And that's fair reasoning for this fair weather."

  "The lady Vivian says you are most welcome,"
  Said now the stately-favored servitor,
  "And are to follow me. She said, 'Say Merlin--
  A pilgrim and a stranger in appearance,
  Though in effect my friend and humble servant--
  Is welcome for himself, and for the sound
  Of his great name that echoes everywhere.'"--
  "I like you and I like your memory,"
  Said Merlin, curiously, "but not your gate.
  Why forge for this elysian wilderness
  A thing so vicious with unholy noise?"--
  "There's a way out of every wilderness
  For those who dare or care enough to find it,"
  The guide said: and they moved along together,
  Down shaded ways, through open ways with hedgerows.
  And into shade again more deep than ever,
  But edged anon with rays of broken sunshine
  In which a fountain, raining crystal music,
  Made faery magic of it through green leafage,
  Till Merlin's eyes were dim with preparation
  For sight now of the lady Vivian.
  He saw at first a bit of living green
  That might have been a part of all the green
  Around the tinkling fountain where she gazed
  Upon the circling pool as if her thoughts
  Were not so much on Merlin--whose advance
  Betrayed through his enormity of hair
  The cheeks and eyes of youth--as on the fishes.
  But soon she turned and found him, now alone,
  And held him while her beauty and her grace
  Made passing trash of empires, and his eyes
  Told hers of what a splendid emptiness
  Her tedious world had been without him in it
  Whose love and service were to be her school,
  Her triumph, and her history: "This is Merlin,"
  She thought; "and I shall dream of him no more.
  And he has come, he thinks, to frighten me
  With beards and robes and his immortal fame;
  Or is it I who think so? I know not.
  I'm frightened, sure enough, but if I show it,
  I'll be no more the Vivian for whose love
  He tossed away his glory, or the Vivian
  Who saw no man alive to make her love him
  Till she saw Merlin once in Camelot,
  And seeing him, saw no other. In an age
  That has no plan for me that I can read
  Without him, shall he tell me what I am,
  And why I am, I wonder?" While she thought,
  And feared the man whom her perverse negation
  Must overcome somehow to soothe her fancy,
  She smiled and welcomed him; and so they stood,
  Each finding in the other's eyes a gleam
  Of what eternity had hidden there.

  "Are you always all in green, as you are now?"
  Said Merlin, more employed with her complexion,
  Where blood and olive made wild harmony
  With eyes and wayward hair that were too dark
  For peace if they were not subordinated;
  "If so you are, then so you make yourself
  A danger in a world of many dangers.
  If I were young, God knows if I were safe
  Concerning you in green, like a slim cedar,
  As you are now, to say my life was mine:
  Were you to say to me that I should end it,
  Longevity for me were jeopardized.
  Have you your green on always and all over?"

  "Come here, and I will tell you about that,"
  Said Vivian, leading Merlin with a laugh
  To an arbored seat where they made opposites:
  "If you are Merlin--and I know you are,
  For I remember you in Camelot,--
  You know that I am Vivian, as I am;
  And if I go in green, why, let me go so,
  And say at once why you have come to me
  Cloaked over like a monk, and with a beard
  As long as Jeremiah's. I don't like it.
  I'll never like a man with hair like that
  While I can feed a carp with little frogs.
  I'm rather sure to hate you if you keep it,
  And when I hate a man I poison him."

  "You've never fed a carp with little frogs,"
  Said Merlin; "I can see it in your eyes."--
  "I might then, if I haven't," said the lady;
  "For I'm a savage, and I love no man
  As I have seen him yet. I'm here alone,
  With some three hundred others, all of whom
  Are ready, I dare say, to die for me;
  I'm cruel and I'm cold, and I like snakes;
  And some have said my mother was a fairy,
  Though I believe it not."

                              "Why not believe it?"
  Said Merlin; "I believe it. I believe
  Also that you divine, as I had wished,
  In my surviving ornament of office
  A needless imposition on your wits,
  If not yet on the scope of your regard.
  Even so, you cannot say how old I am,
  Or yet how young. I'm willing cheerfully
  To fight, left-handed, Hell's three headed hound
  If you but whistle him up from where he lives;
  I'm cheerful and I'm fierce, and I've made kings;
  And some have said my father was the Devil,
  Though I believe it not. Whatever I am,
  I have not lived in Time until to-day."
  A moment's worth of wisdom there escaped him,
  But Vivian seized it, and it was not lost.
  Embroidering doom with many levities,
  Till now the fountain's crystal silver, fading,
  Became a splash and a mere chilliness,
  They mocked their fate with easy pleasantries
  That were too false and small to be forgotten,
  And with ingenious insincerities
  That had no repetition or revival.
  At last the lady Vivian arose,
  And with a crying of how late it was
  Took Merlin's hand and led him like a child
  Along a dusky way between tall cones
  Of tight green cedars: "Am I like one of these?
  You said I was, though I deny it wholly."--
  "Very," said Merlin, to his bearded lips
  Uplifting her small fingers.--"O, that hair!"
  She moaned, as if in sorrow: "Must it be?
  Must every prophet and important wizard
  Be clouded so that nothing but his nose
  And eyes, and intimations of his ears,
  Are there to make us know him when we see him?
  Praise heaven I'm not a prophet! Are you glad?"--

  He did not say that he was glad or sorry;
  For suddenly came flashing into vision
  A thing that was a manor and a palace,
  With walls and roofs that had a flaming sky
  Behind them, like a sky that he remembered,
  And one that had from his rock-sheltered haunt
  Above the roofs of his forsaken city
  Made flame as if all Camelot were on fire.
  The glow brought with it a brief memory
  Of Arthur as he left him, and the pain
  That fought in Arthur's eyes for losing him,
  And must have overflowed when he had vanished.
  But now the eyes that looked hard into his
  Were Vivian's, not the King's; and he could see,
  Or so he thought, a shade of sorrow in them.
  She took his two hands: "You are sad," she said.--
  He smiled: "Your western lights bring memories
  Of Camelot. We all have memories--
  Prophets, and women who are like slim cedars;
  But you are wrong to say that I am sad."--
  "Would you go back to Camelot?" she asked,
  Her fingers tightening. Merlin shook his head.
  "Then listen while I tell you that I'm glad,"
  She purred, as if assured that he would listen:
  "At your first warning, much too long ago,
  Of this quaint pilgrimage of yours to see
  'The fairest and most orgulous of ladies'--
  No language for a prophet, I am sure--
  Said I, 'When this great Merlin comes to me,
  My task and avocation for some time
  Will be to make him willing, if I can,
  To teach and feed me with an ounce of wisdom.'
  For I have eaten to an empty shell,
  After a weary feast of observation
  Among the glories of a tinsel world
  That had for me no glory till you came,
  A life that is no life. Would you go back
  To Camelot?"--Merlin shook his head again,
  And the two smiled together in the sunset.

  They moved along in silence to the door,
  Where Merlin said: "Of your three hundred here
  There is but one I know, and him I favor;
  I mean the stately one who shakes the keys
  Of that most evil sounding gate of yours,
  Which has a clang as if it shut forever."--
  "If there be need, I'll shut the gate myself,"
  She said. "And you like Blaise? Then you shall have him.
  He was not born to serve, but serve he must,
  It seems, and be enamoured of my shadow.
  He cherishes the taint of some high folly
  That haunts him with a name he cannot know,
  And I could fear his wits are paying for it.
  Forgive his tongue, and humor it a little."--
  "I knew another one whose name was Blaise,"
  He said; and she said lightly, "Well, what of it?"--
  "And he was nigh the learnedest of hermits;
  His home was far away from everywhere,
  And he was all alone there when he died."--
  "Now be a pleasant Merlin," Vivian said,
  Patting his arm, "and have no more of that;
  For I'll not hear of dead men far away,
  Or dead men anywhere this afternoon.
  There'll be a trifle in the way of supper
  This evening, but the dead shall not have any.
  Blaise and this man will tell you all there is
  For you to know. Then you'll know everything."
  She laughed, and vanished like a humming-bird.


V

  The sun went down, and the dark after it
  Starred Merlin's new abode with many a sconced
  And many a moving candle, in whose light
  The prisoned wizard, mirrored in amazement,
  Saw fronting him a stranger, falcon-eyed,
  Firm-featured, of a negligible age,
  And fair enough to look upon, he fancied,
  Though not a warrior born, nor more a courtier.
  A native humor resting in his long
  And solemn jaws now stirred, and Merlin smiled
  To see himself in purple, touched with gold,
  And fledged with snowy lace.--The careful Blaise,
  Having drawn some time before from Merlin's wallet
  The sable raiment of a royal scholar,
  Had eyed it with a long mistrust and said:
  "The lady Vivian would be vexed, I fear,
  To meet you vested in these learned weeds
  Of gravity and death; for she abhors
  Mortality in all its hues and emblems--
  Black wear, long argument, and all the cold
  And solemn things that appertain to graves."--
  And Merlin, listening, to himself had said,
  "This fellow has a freedom, yet I like him;"
  And then aloud: "I trust you. Deck me out,
  However, with a temperate regard
  For what your candid eye may find in me
  Of inward coloring. Let them reap my beard,
  Moreover, with a sort of reverence,
  For I shall never look on it again.
  And though your lady frown her face away
  To think of me in black, for God's indulgence,
  Array me not in scarlet or in yellow."--
  And so it came to pass that Merlin sat
  At ease in purple, even though his chin
  Reproached him as he pinched it, and seemed yet
  A little fearful of its nakedness.
  He might have sat and scanned himself for ever
  Had not the careful Blaise, regarding him,
  Remarked again that in his proper judgment,
  And on the valid word of his attendants,
  No more was to be done. "Then do no more,"
  Said Merlin, with a last look at his chin;
  "Never do more when there's no more to do,
  And you may shun thereby the bitter taste
  Of many disillusions and regrets.
  God's pity on us that our words have wings
  And leave our deeds to crawl so far below them;
  For we have all two heights, we men who dream,
  Whether we lead or follow, rule or serve."--
  "God's pity on us anyhow," Blaise answered,
  "Or most of us. Meanwhile, I have to say,
  As long as you are here, and I'm alive,
  Your summons will assure the loyalty
  Of all my diligence and expedition.
  The gong that you hear singing in the distance
  Was rung for your attention and your presence."--
  "I wonder at this fellow, yet I like him,"
  Said Merlin; and he rose to follow him.

  The lady Vivian in a fragile sheath
  Of crimson, dimmed and veiled ineffably
  By the flame-shaken gloom wherein she sat,
  And twinkled if she moved, heard Merlin coming,
  And smiled as if to make herself believe
  Her joy was all a triumph; yet her blood
  Confessed a tingling of more wonderment
  Than all her five and twenty worldly years
  Of waiting for this triumph could remember;
  And when she knew and felt the slower tread
  Of his unseen advance among the shadows
  To the small haven of uncertain light
  That held her in it as a torch-lit shoal
  Might hold a smooth red fish, her listening skin
  Responded with a creeping underneath it,
  And a crinkling that was incident alike
  To darkness, love, and mice. When he was there,
  She looked up at him in a whirl of mirth
  And wonder, as in childhood she had gazed
  Wide-eyed on royal mountebanks who made
  So brief a shift of the impossible
  That kings and queens would laugh and shake themselves;
  Then rising slowly on her little feet,
  Like a slim creature lifted, she thrust out
  Her two small hands as if to push him back--
  Whereon he seized them. "Go away," she said;
  "I never saw you in my life before."--
  "You say the truth," he answered; "when I met
  Myself an hour ago, my words were yours.
  God made the man you see for you to like,
  If possible. If otherwise, turn down
  These two prodigious and remorseless thumbs
  And leave your lions to annihilate him."--

  "I have no other lion than yourself,"
  She said; "and since you cannot eat yourself,
  Pray do a lonely woman, who is, you say,
  More like a tree than any other thing
  In your discrimination, the large honor
  Of sharing with her a small kind of supper."--
  "Yes, you are like a tree,--or like a flower;
  More like a flower to-night." He bowed his head
  And kissed the ten small fingers he was holding,
  As calmly as if each had been a son;
  Although his heart was leaping and his eyes
  Had sight for nothing save a swimming crimson
  Between two glimmering arms. "More like a flower
  To-night," he said, as now he scanned again
  The immemorial meaning of her face
  And drew it nearer to his eyes. It seemed
  A flower of wonder with a crimson stem
  Came leaning slowly and regretfully
  To meet his will--a flower of change and peril
  That had a clinging blossom of warm olive
  Half stifled with a tyranny of black,
  And held the wayward fragrance of a rose
  Made woman by delirious alchemy.
  She raised her face and yoked his willing neck
  With half her weight; and with hot lips that left
  The world with only philosophy
  For Merlin or for Anaxagoras,
  Called his to meet them and in one long hush
  Of capture to surrender and make hers
  The last of anything that might remain
  Of what were now their beardless wizardry.
  Then slowly she began to push herself
  Away, and slowly Merlin let her go
  As far from him as his outreaching hands
  Could hold her fingers while his eyes had all
  The beauty of the woodland and the world
  Before him in the firelight, like a nymph
  Of cities, or a queen a little weary
  Of inland stillness and immortal trees.
  "Are you to let me go again sometime,"
  She said,--"before I starve to death, I wonder?
  If not, I'll have to bite the lion's paws,
  And make him roar. He cannot shake his mane,
  For now the lion has no mane to shake;
  The lion hardly knows himself without it,
  And thinks he has no face, but there's a lady
  Who says he had no face until he lost it.
  So there we are. And there's a flute somewhere,
  Playing a strange old tune. You know the words:
  'The Lion and the Lady are both hungry.'"

  Fatigue and hunger--tempered leisurely
  With food that some devout magician's oven
  Might after many failures have delivered,
  And wine that had for decades in the dark
  Of Merlin's grave been slowly quickening,
  And with half-heard, dream-weaving interludes
  Of distant flutes and viols, made yet more distant
  By far, nostalgic hautboys blown from nowhere,--
  Were tempered not so leisurely, may be,
  With Vivian's inextinguishable eyes
  Between two shining silver candlesticks
  That lifted each a trembling flame to make
  The rest of her a dusky loveliness
  Against a bank of shadow. Merlin made,
  As well as he was able while he ate,
  A fair division of the fealty due
  To food and beauty, albeit more times than one
  Was he at odds with his urbanity
  In honoring too long the grosser viand.
  "The best invention in Broceliande
  Has not been over-taxed in vain, I see,"
  She told him, with her chin propped on her fingers
  And her eyes flashing blindness into his:
  "I put myself out cruelly to please you,
  And you, for that, forget almost at once
  The name and image of me altogether.
  You needn't, for when all is analyzed,
  It's only a bird-pie that you are eating."

  "I know not what you call it," Merlin said;
  "Nor more do I forget your name and image,
  Though I do eat; and if I did not eat,
  Your sending out of ships and caravans
  To get whatever 'tis that's in this thing
  Would be a sorrow for you all your days;
  And my great love, which you have seen by now,
  Might look to you a lie; and like as not
  You'd actuate some sinewed mercenary
  To carry me away to God knows where
  And seal me in a fearsome hole to starve,
  Because I made of this insidious picking
  An idle circumstance. My dear fair lady--
  And there is not another under heaven
  So fair as you are as I see you now--
  I cannot look at you too much and eat;
  And I must eat, or be untimely ashes,
  Whereon the light of your celestial gaze
  Would fall, I fear me, for no longer time
  Than on the solemn dust of Jeremiah--
  Whose beard you likened once, in heathen jest,
  To mine that now is no man's."

                                        "Are you sorry?"
  Said Vivian, filling Merlin's empty goblet;
  "If you are sorry for the loss of it,
  Drink more of this and you may tell me lies
  Enough to make me sure that you are glad;
  But if your love is what you say it is,
  Be never sorry that my love took off
  That horrid hair to make your face at last
  A human fact. Since I have had your name
  To dream of and say over to myself,
  The visitations of that awful beard
  Have been a terror for my nights and days--
  For twenty years. I've seen it like an ocean,
  Blown seven ways at once and wrecking ships,
  With men and women screaming for their lives;
  I've seen it woven into shining ladders
  That ran up out of sight and so to heaven,
  All covered with white ghosts with hanging robes
  Like folded wings,--and there were millions of them,
  Climbing, climbing, climbing, all the time;
  And all the time that I was watching them
  I thought how far above me Merlin was,
  And wondered always what his face was like.
  But even then, as a child, I knew the day
  Would come some time when I should see his face,
  And hear his voice, and have him in my house
  Till he should care no more to stay in it,
  And go away to found another kingdom."--
  "Not that," he said; and, sighing, drank more wine;
  "One kingdom for one Merlin is enough."--
  "One Merlin for one Vivian is enough,"
  She said. "If you care much, remember that;
  But the Lord knows how many Vivians
  One Merlin's entertaining eye might favor,
  Indifferently well and all at once,
  If they were all at hand. Praise heaven they're not."

  "If they were in the world--praise heaven they're not--
  And if one Merlin's entertaining eye
  Saw two of them, there might be left him then
  The sight of no eye to see anything--
  Not even the Vivian who is everything,
  She being Beauty, Beauty being She,
  She being Vivian, and so forever."--
  "I'm glad you don't see two of me," she said;
  "For there's a whole world yet for you to eat
  And drink and say to me before I know
  The kind of creature that you see in me.
  I'm withering for a little more attention,
  But, being woman, I can wait. These cups
  That you see coming are for the last there is
  Of what my father gave to kings alone,
  And far from always. You are more than kings
  To me; therefore I give it all to you,
  Imploring you to spare no more of it
  Than what a cockle-shell would hold for me
  To pledge your love and mine in. Take the rest,
  That I may see tonight the end of it;
  I'll have no living remnant of the dead
  Annoying me until it fades and sours
  Of too long cherishing; for Time enjoys
  The look that's on our faces when we scowl
  On unexpected ruins, and thrift itself
  May be a kind of slow unwholesome fire
  That eats away to dust the life that feeds it.
  You smile, I see, but I said what I said.
  One hardly has to live a thousand years
  To contemplate a lost economy;
  So let us drink it while it's yet alive
  And you and I are not untimely ashes.
  My last words are your own, and I don't like 'em."--
  A sudden laughter scattered from her eyes
  A threatening wisdom. He smiled and let her laugh,
  Then looked into the dark where there was nothing:
  "There's more in this than I have seen," he thought,
  "Though I shall see it."--"Drink," she said again;
  "There's only this much in the world of it,
  And I am near to giving all to you
  Because you are so great and I so little."

  With a long-kindling gaze that caught from hers
  A laughing flame, and with a hand that shook
  Like Arthur's kingdom, Merlin slowly raised
  A golden cup that for a golden moment
  Was twinned in air with hers; and Vivian,
  Who smiled at him across their gleaming rims,
  From eyes that made a fuel of the night
  Surrounding her, shot glory over gold
  At Merlin, while their cups touched and his trembled.
  He drank, not knowing what, nor caring much
  For kings who might have cared less for themselves,
  He thought, had all the darkness and wild light
  That fell together to make Vivian
  Been there before them then to flower anew
  Through sheathing crimson into candle-light
  With each new leer of their loose, liquorish eyes.
  Again he drank, and he cursed every king
  Who might have touched her even in her cradle;
  For what were kings to such as he, who made them
  And saw them totter--for the world to see,
  And heed, if the world would? He drank again,
  And yet again--to make himself assured
  No manner of king should have the last of it--
  The cup that Vivian filled unfailingly
  Until she poured for nothing. "At the end
  Of this incomparable flowing gold,"
  She prattled on to Merlin, who observed
  Her solemnly, "I fear there may be specks."--
  He sighed aloud, whereat she laughed at him
  And pushed the golden cup a little nearer.
  He scanned it with a sad anxiety,
  And then her face likewise, and shook his head
  As if at her concern for such a matter:
  "Specks? What are specks? Are you afraid of them?"
  He murmured slowly, with a drowsy tongue;
  "There are specks everywhere. I fear them not.
  If I were king in Camelot, I might
  Fear more than specks. But now I fear them not.
  You are too strange a lady to fear specks."

  He stared a long time at the cup of gold
  Before him but he drank no more. There came
  Between him and the world a crumbling sky
  Of black and crimson, with a crimson cloud
  That held a far off town of many towers,
  All swayed and shaken, till at last they fell,
  And there was nothing but a crimson cloud
  That crumbled into nothing, like the sky
  That vanished with it, carrying away
  The world, the woman, and all memory of them,
  Until a slow light of another sky
  Made gray an open casement, showing him
  Faint shapes of an exotic furniture
  That glimmered with a dim magnificence,
  And letting in the sound of many birds
  That were, as he lay there remembering,
  The only occupation of his ears
  Until it seemed they shared a fainter sound,
  As if a sleeping child with a black head
  Beside him drew the breath of innocence.

  One shining afternoon around the fountain,
  As on the shining day of his arrival,
  The sunlight was alive with flying silver
  That had for Merlin a more dazzling flash
  Than jewels rained in dreams, and a richer sound
  Than harps, and all the morning stars together,--
  When jewels and harps and stars and everything
  That flashed and sang and was not Vivian,
  Seemed less than echoes of her least of words--
  For she was coming. Suddenly, somewhere
  Behind him, she was coming; that was all
  He knew until she came and took his hand
  And held it while she talked about the fishes.
  When she looked up he thought a softer light
  Was in her eyes than once he had found there;
  And had there been left yet for dusky women
  A beauty that was heretofore not hers,
  He told himself he must have seen it then
  Before him in the face at which he smiled
  And trembled. "Many men have called me wise,"
  He said, "but you are wiser than all wisdom
  If you know what you are."--"I don't," she said;
  "I know that you and I are here together;
  I know that I have known for twenty years
  That life would be almost a constant yawning
  Until you came; and now that you are here,
  I know that you are not to go away
  Until you tell me that I'm hideous;
  I know that I like fishes, ferns, and snakes,--
  Maybe because I liked them when the world
  Was young and you and I were salamanders;
  I know, too, a cool place not far from here,
  Where there are ferns that are like marching men
  Who never march away. Come now and see them,
  And do as they do--never march away.
  When they are gone, some others, crisp and green,
  Will have their place, but never march away."--
  He smoothed her silky fingers, one by one:
  "Some other Merlin, also, do you think,
  Will have his place--and never march away?"--
  Then Vivian laid a finger on his lips
  And shook her head at him before she laughed:
  "There is no other Merlin than yourself,
  And you are never going to be old."
  Oblivious of a world that made of him
  A jest, a legend, and a long regret,
  And with a more commanding wizardry
  Than his to rule a kingdom where the king
  Was Love and the queen Vivian, Merlin found
  His queen without the blemish of a word
  That was more rough than honey from her lips,
  Or the first adumbration of a frown
  To cloud the night-wild fire that in her eyes
  Had yet a smoky friendliness of home,
  And a foreknowing care for mighty trifles.
  "There are miles and miles for you to wander in,"
  She told him once: "Your prison yard is large,
  And I would rather take my two ears off
  And feed them to the fishes in the fountain
  Than buzz like an incorrigible bee
  For always around yours, and have you hate
  The sound of me; for some day then, for certain,
  Your philosophic rage would see in me
  A bee in earnest, and your hand would smite
  My life away. And what would you do then?
  I know: for years and years you'd sit alone
  Upon my grave, and be the grieving image
  Of lean remorse, and suffer miserably;
  And often, all day long, you'd only shake
  Your celebrated head and all it holds,
  Or beat it with your fist the while you groaned
  Aloud and went on saying to yourself:
  'Never should I have killed her, or believed
  She was a bee that buzzed herself to death,
  First having made me crazy, had there been
  Judicious distance and wise absences
  To keep the two of us inquisitive.'"--
  "I fear you bow your unoffending head
  Before a load that should be mine," said he;
  "If so, you led me on by listening.
  You should have shrieked and jumped, and then fled yelling;
  That's the best way when a man talks too long.
  God's pity on me if I love your feet
  More now than I could ever love the face
  Of any one of all those Vivians
  You summoned out of nothing on the night
  When I saw towers. I'll wander and amend."--
  At that she flung the noose of her soft arms
  Around his neck and kissed him instantly:
  "You are the wisest man that ever was,
  And I've a prayer to make: May all you say
  To Vivian be a part of what you knew
  Before the curse of her unquiet head
  Was on your shoulder, as you have it now,
  To punish you for knowing beyond knowledge.
  You are the only one who sees enough
  To make me see how far away I am
  From all that I have seen and have not been;
  You are the only thing there is alive
  Between me as I am and as I was
  When Merlin was a dream. You are to listen
  When I say now to you that I'm alone.
  Like you, I saw too much; and unlike you
  I made no kingdom out of what I saw--
  Or none save this one here that you must rule,
  Believing you are ruled. I see too far
  To rule myself. Time's way with you and me
  Is our way, in that we are out of Time
  And out of tune with Time. We have this place,
  And you must hold us in it or we die.
  Look at me now and say if what I say
  Be folly or not; for my unquiet head
  Is no conceit of mine. I had it first
  When I was born; and I shall have it with me
  Till my unquiet soul is on its way
  To be, I hope, where souls are quieter.
  So let the first and last activity
  Of what you say so often is your love
  Be always to remember that our lyres
  Are not strung for Today. On you it falls
  To keep them in accord here with each other,
  For you have wisdom, I have only sight
  For distant things--and you. And you are Merlin.
  Poor wizard! Vivian is your punishment
  For making kings of men who are not kings;
  And you are mine, by the same reasoning,
  For living out of Time and out of tune
  With anything but you. No other man
  Could make me say so much of what I know
  As I say now to you. And you are Merlin!"

  She looked up at him till his way was lost
  Again in the familiar wilderness
  Of night that love made for him in her eyes,
  And there he wandered as he said he would;
  He wandered also in his prison-yard,
  And, when he found her coming after him,
  Beguiled her with her own admonishing
  And frowned upon her with a fierce reproof
  That many a time in the old world outside
  Had set the mark of silence on strong men--
  Whereat she laughed, not always wholly sure,
  Nor always wholly glad, that he who played
  So lightly was the wizard of her dreams:
  "No matter--if only Merlin keep the world
  Away," she thought. "Our lyres have many strings,
  But he must know them all, for he is Merlin."--
  And so for years, till ten of them were gone,--
  Ten years, ten seasons, or ten flying ages--
  Fate made Broceliande a paradise,
  By none invaded, until Dagonet,
  Like a discordant, awkward bird of doom,
  Flew in with Arthur's message. For the King,
  In sorrow cleaving to simplicity,
  And having in his love a quick remembrance
  Of Merlin's old affection for the fellow,
  Had for this vain, reluctant enterprise
  Appointed him--the knight who made men laugh,
  And was a fool because he played the fool.

  "The King believes today, as in his boyhood,
  That I am Fate; and I can do no more
  Than show again what in his heart he knows,"
  Said Merlin to himself and Vivian:
  "This time I go because I made him King,
  Thereby to be a mirror for the world;
  This time I go, but never after this,
  For I can be no more than what I was,
  And I can do no more than I have done."
  He took her slowly in his arms and felt
  Her body throbbing like a bird against him:
  "This time I go; I go because I must."

  And in the morning, when he rode away
  With Dagonet and Blaise through the same gate
  That once had clanged as if to shut for ever,
  She had not even asked him not to go;
  For it was then that in his lonely gaze
  Of helpless love and sad authority
  She found the gleam of his imprisoned power
  That Fate withheld; and, pitying herself,
  She pitied the fond Merlin she had changed,
  And saw the Merlin who had changed the world.


VI

  "No kings are coming on their hands and knees,
  Nor yet on horses or in chariots,
  To carry me away from you again,"
  Said Merlin, winding around Vivian's ear
  A shred of her black hair. "King Arthur knows
  That I have done with kings, and that I speak
  No more their crafty language. Once I knew it,
  But now the only language I have left
  Is one that I must never let you hear
  Too long, or know too well. When towering deeds
  Once done shall only out of dust and words
  Be done again, the doer may then be wary
  Lest in the complement of his new fabric
  There be more words than dust."

                                      "Why tell me so?"
  Said Vivian; and a singular thin laugh
  Came after her thin question. "Do you think
  That I'm so far away from history
  That I require, even of the wisest man
  Who ever said the wrong thing to a woman,
  So large a light on what I know already--
  When all I seek is here before me now
  In your new eyes that you have brought for me
  From Camelot? The eyes you took away
  Were sad and old; and I could see in them
  A Merlin who remembered all the kings
  He ever saw, and wished himself, almost,
  Away from Vivian, to make other kings,
  And shake the world again in the old manner.
  I saw myself no bigger than a beetle
  For several days, and wondered if your love
  Were large enough to make me any larger
  When you came back. Am I a beetle still?"
  She stood up on her toes and held her cheek
  For some time against his, and let him go.

  "I fear the time has come for me to wander
  A little in my prison-yard," he said.--
  "No, tell me everything that you have seen
  And heard and done, and seen done, and heard done,
  Since you deserted me. And tell me first
  What the King thinks of me."--"The King believes
  That you are almost what you are," he told her:
  "The beauty of all ages that are vanished,
  Reborn to be the wonder of one woman."--
  "I knew he hated me. What else of him?"--
  "And all that I have seen and heard and done,
  Which is not much, would make a weary telling;
  And all your part of it would be to sleep,
  And dream that Merlin had his beard again."--
  "Then tell me more about your good fool knight,
  Sir Dagonet. If Blaise were not half-mad
  Already with his pondering on the name
  And shield of his unshielding nameless father,
  I'd make a fool of him. I'd call him Ajax;
  I'd have him shake his fist at thunder-storms,
  And dance a jig as long as there was lightning,
  And so till I forgot myself entirely.
  Not even your love may do so much as that."--
  "Thunder and lightning are no friends of mine,"
  Said Merlin slowly, "more than they are yours;
  They bring me nearer to the elements
  From which I came than I care now to be."--
  "You owe a service to those elements;
  For by their service you outwitted age
  And made the world a kingdom of your will."--
  He touched her hand, smiling: "Whatever service
  Of mine awaits them will not be forgotten,"
  He said; and the smile faded on his face,--
  "Now of all graceless and ungrateful wizards--"
  But there she ceased, for she found in his eyes
  The first of a new fear. "The wrong word rules
  Today," she said; "and we'll have no more journeys."

  Although he wandered rather more than ever
  Since he had come again to Brittany
  From Camelot, Merlin found eternally
  Before him a new loneliness that made
  Of garden, park, and woodland, all alike,
  A desolation and a changelessness
  Defying reason, without Vivian
  Beside him, like a child with a black head,
  Or moving on before him, or somewhere
  So near him that, although he saw it not
  With eyes, he felt the picture of her beauty
  And shivered at the nearness of her being.
  Without her now there was no past or future,
  And a vague, soul-consuming premonition
  He found the only tenant of the present;
  He wondered, when she was away from him,
  If his avenging injured intellect
  Might shine with Arthur's kingdom a twin mirror,
  Fate's plaything, for new ages without eyes
  To see therein themselves and their declension.
  Love made his hours a martyrdom without her;
  The world was like an empty house without her,
  Where Merlin was a prisoner of love
  Confined within himself by too much freedom,
  Repeating an unending exploration
  Of many solitary silent rooms,
  And only in a way remembering now
  That once their very solitude and silence
  Had by the magic of expectancy
  Made sure what now he doubted--though his doubts,
  Day after day, were founded on a shadow.

  For now to Merlin, in his paradise,
  Had come an unseen angel with a sword
  Unseen, the touch of which was a long fear
  For longer sorrow that had never come,
  Yet might if he compelled it. He discovered,
  One golden day in autumn as he wandered,
  That he had made the radiance of two years
  A misty twilight when he might as well
  Have had no mist between him and the sun,
  The sun being Vivian. On his coming then
  To find her all in green against a wall
  Of green and yellow leaves, and crumbling bread
  For birds around the fountain while she sang
  And the birds ate the bread, he told himself
  That everything today was as it was
  At first, and for a minute he believed it.
  "I'd have you always all in green out here,"
  He said, "if I had much to say about it."--
  She clapped her crumbs away and laughed at him:
  "I've covered up my bones with every color
  That I can carry on them without screaming,
  And you have liked them all--or made me think so."--
  "I must have liked them if you thought I did,"
  He answered, sighing; "but the sight of you
  Today as on the day I saw you first,
  All green, all wonderful" ... He tore a leaf
  To pieces with a melancholy care
  That made her smile.--"Why pause at 'wonderful'?
  You've hardly been yourself since you came back
  From Camelot, where that unpleasant King
  Said things that you have never said to me."--
  He looked upon her with a worn reproach:
  "The King said nothing that I keep from you."--
  "What is it then?" she asked, imploringly;
  "You man of moods and miracles, what is it?"--
  He shook his head and tore another leaf:
  "There is no need of asking what it is;
  Whatever you or I may choose to name it,
  The name of it is Fate, who played with me
  And gave me eyes to read of the unwritten
  More lines than I have read. I see no more
  Today than yesterday, but I remember.
  My ways are not the ways of other men;
  My memories go forward. It was you
  Who said that we were not in tune with Time;
  It was not I who said it."--"But you knew it;
  What matter then who said it?"--"It was you
  Who said that Merlin was your punishment
  For being in tune with him and not with Time--
  With Time or with the world; and it was you
  Who said you were alone, even here with Merlin;
  It was not I who said it. It is I
  Who tell you now my inmost thoughts." He laughed
  As if at hidden pain around his heart,
  But there was not much laughing in his eyes.
  They walked, and for a season they were silent:
  "I shall know what you mean by that," she said,
  "When you have told me. Here's an oak you like,
  And here's a place that fits me wondrous well
  To sit in. You sit there. I've seen you there
  Before; and I have spoiled your noble thoughts
  By walking all my fingers up and down
  Your countenance, as if they were the feet
  Of a small animal with no great claws.
  Tell me a story now about the world,
  And the men in it, what they do in it,
  And why it is they do it all so badly."--
  "I've told you every story that I know,
  Almost," he said.--"O, don't begin like that."--
  "Well, once upon a time there was a King."--
  "That has a more commendable address;
  Go on, and tell me all about the King;
  I'll bet the King had warts or carbuncles,
  Or something wrong in his divine insides,
  To make him wish that Adam had died young."

  Merlin observed her slowly with a frown
  Of saddened wonder. She laughed rather lightly,
  And at his heart he felt again the sword
  Whose touch was a long fear for longer sorrow.
  "Well, once upon a time there was a king,"
  He said again, but now in a dry voice
  That wavered and betrayed a venturing.
  He paused, and would have hesitated longer,
  But something in him that was not himself
  Compelled an utterance that his tongue obeyed,
  As an unwilling child obeys a father
  Who might be richer for obedience
  If he obeyed the child: "There was a king
  Who would have made his reign a monument
  For kings and peoples of the waiting ages
  To reverence and remember, and to this end
  He coveted and won, with no ado
  To make a story of, a neighbor queen
  Who limed him with her smile and had of him,
  In token of their sin, what he found soon
  To be a sort of mongrel son and nephew--
  And a most precious reptile in addition--
  To ornament his court and carry arms,
  And latterly to be the darker half
  Of ruin. Also the king, who made of love
  More than he made of life and death together,
  Forgot the world and his example in it
  For yet another woman--one of many--
  And this one he made Queen, albeit he knew
  That her unsworn allegiance to the knight
  That he had loved the best of all his order
  Must one day bring along the coming end
  Of love and honor and of everything;
  And with a kingdom builded on two pits
  Of living sin,--so founded by the will
  Of one wise counsellor who loved the king,
  And loved the world and therefore made him king
  To be a mirror for it,--the king reigned well
  For certain years, awaiting a sure doom;
  For certain years he waved across the world
  A royal banner with a Dragon on it;
  And men of every land fell worshipping
  The Dragon as it were the living God,
  And not the living sin."

                          She rose at that,
  And after a calm yawn, she looked at Merlin:
  "Why all this new insistence upon sin?"
  She said; "I wonder if I understand
  This king of yours, with all his pits and dragons;
  I know I do not like him." A thinner light
  Was in her eyes than he had found in them
  Since he became the willing prisoner
  That she had made of him; and on her mouth
  Lay now a colder line of irony
  Than all his fears or nightmares could have drawn
  Before today: "What reason do you know
  For me to listen to this king of yours?
  What reading has a man of woman's days,
  Even though the man be Merlin and a prophet?"

  "I know no call for you to love the king,"
  Said Merlin, driven ruinously along
  By the vindictive urging of his fate;
  "I know no call for you to love the king,
  Although you serve him, knowing not yet the king
  You serve. There is no man, or any woman,
  For whom the story of the living king
  Is not the story of the living sin.
  I thought my story was the common one,
  For common recognition and regard."

  "Then let us have no more of it," she said;
  "For we are not so common, I believe,
  That we need kings and pits and flags and dragons
  To make us know that we have let the world
  Go by us. Have you missed the world so much
  That you must have it in with all its clots
  And wounds and bristles on to make us happy--
  Like Blaise, with shouts and horns and seven men
  Triumphant with a most unlovely boar?
  Is there no other story in the world
  Than this one of a man that you made king
  To be a moral for the speckled ages?
  You said once long ago, if you remember,
  'You are too strange a lady to fear specks';
  And it was you, you said, who feared them not.
  Why do you look at me as at a snake
  All coiled to spring at you and strike you dead?
  I am not going to spring at you, or bite you;
  I'm going home. And you, if you are kind,
  Will have no fear to wander for an hour.
  I'm sure the time has come for you to wander;
  And there may come a time for you to say
  What most you think it is that we need here
  To make of this Broceliande a refuge
  Where two disheartened sinners may forget
  A world that has today no place for them."
  A melancholy wave of revelation
  Broke over Merlin like a rising sea,
  Long viewed unwillingly and long denied.
  He saw what he had seen, but would not feel,
  Till now the bitterness of what he felt
  Was in his throat, and all the coldness of it
  Was on him and around him like a flood
  Of lonelier memories than he had said
  Were memories, although he knew them now
  For what they were--for what his eyes had seen,
  For what his ears had heard and what his heart
  Had felt, with him not knowing what it felt.
  But now he knew that his cold angel's name
  Was Change, and that a mightier will than his
  Or Vivian's had ordained that he be there.
  To Vivian he could not say anything
  But words that had no more of hope in them
  Than anguish had of peace: "I meant the world ...
  I meant the world," he groaned; "not you--not me."

  Again the frozen line of irony
  Was on her mouth. He looked up once at it.
  And then away--too fearful of her eyes
  To see what he could hear now in her laugh
  That melted slowly into what she said,
  Like snow in icy water: "This world of yours
  Will surely be the end of us. And why not?
  I'm overmuch afraid we're part of it,--
  Or why do we build walls up all around us,
  With gates of iron that make us think the day
  Of judgment's coming when they clang behind us?
  And yet you tell me that you fear no specks!
  With you I never cared for them enough
  To think of them. I was too strange a lady.
  And your return is now a speckled king
  And something that you call a living sin--
  That's like an uninvited poor relation
  Who comes without a welcome, rather late,
  And on a foundered horse."

                          "Specks? What are specks?"
  He gazed at her in a forlorn wonderment
  That made her say: "You said, 'I fear them not.'
  'If I were king in Camelot,' you said,
  'I might fear more than specks.' Have you forgotten?
  Don't tell me, Merlin, you are growing old.
  Why don't you make somehow a queen of me,
  And give me half the world? I'd wager thrushes
  That I should reign, with you to turn the wheel,
  As well as any king that ever was.
  The curse on me is that I cannot serve
  A ruler who forgets that he is king."

  In his bewildered misery Merlin then
  Stared hard at Vivian's face, more like a slave
  Who sought for common mercy than like Merlin:
  "You speak a language that was never mine,
  Or I have lost my wits. Why do you seize
  The flimsiest of opportunities
  To make of what I said another thing
  Than love or reason could have let me say,
  Or let me fancy? Why do you keep the truth
  So far away from me, when all your gates
  Will open at your word and let me go
  To some place where no fear or weariness
  Of yours need ever dwell? Why does a woman,
  Made otherwise a miracle of love
  And loveliness, and of immortal beauty,
  Tear one word by the roots out of a thousand,
  And worry it, and torture it, and shake it,
  Like a small dog that has a rag to play with?
  What coil of an ingenious destiny
  Is this that makes of what I never meant
  A meaning as remote as hell from heaven?"

  "I don't know," Vivian said reluctantly,
  And half as if in pain; "I'm going home.
  I'm going home and leave you here to wander.
  Pray take your kings and sins away somewhere
  And bury them, and bury the Queen in also.
  I know this king; he lives in Camelot,
  And I shall never like him. There are specks
  Almost all over him. Long live the king,
  But not the king who lives in Camelot,
  With Modred, Lancelot, and Guinevere--
  And all four speckled like a merry nest
  Of addled eggs together. You made him King
  Because you loved the world and saw in him
  From infancy a mirror for the millions.
  The world will see itself in him, and then
  The world will say its prayers and wash its face,
  And build for some new king a new foundation.
  Long live the King!... But now I apprehend
  A time for me to shudder and grow old
  And garrulous--and so become a fright
  For Blaise to take out walking in warm weather--
  Should I give way to long considering
  Of worlds you may have lost while prisoned here
  With me and my light mind. I contemplate
  Another name for this forbidden place,
  And one more fitting. Tell me, if you find it,
  Some fitter name than Eden. We have had
  A man and woman in it for some time,
  And now, it seems, we have a Tree of Knowledge."
  She looked up at the branches overhead
  And shrugged her shoulders. Then she went away;
  And what was left of Merlin's happiness,
  Like a disloyal phantom, followed her.

  He felt the sword of his cold angel thrust
  And twisted in his heart, as if the end
  Were coming next, but the cold angel passed
  Invisibly and left him desolate,
  With misty brow and eyes. "The man who sees
  May see too far, and he may see too late
  The path he takes unseen," he told himself
  When he found thought again. "The man who sees
  May go on seeing till the immortal flame
  That lights and lures him folds him in its heart,
  And leaves of what there was of him to die
  An item of inhospitable dust
  That love and hate alike must hide away;
  Or there may still be charted for his feet
  A dimmer faring, where the touch of time
  Were like the passing of a twilight moth
  From flower to flower into oblivion,
  If there were not somewhere a barren end
  Of moths and flowers, and glimmering far away
  Beyond a desert where the flowerless days
  Are told in slow defeats and agonies,
  The guiding of a nameless light that once
  Had made him see too much--and has by now
  Revealed in death, to the undying child
  Of Lancelot, the Grail. For this pure light
  Has many rays to throw, for many men
  To follow; and the wise are not all pure,
  Nor are the pure all wise who follow it.
  There are more rays than men. But let the man
  Who saw too much, and was to drive himself
  From paradise, play too lightly or too long
  Among the moths and flowers, he finds at last
  There is a dim way out; and he shall grope
  Where pleasant shadows lead him to the plain
  That has no shadow save his own behind him.
  And there, with no complaint, nor much regret,
  Shall he plod on, with death between him now
  And the far light that guides him, till he falls
  And has an empty thought of empty rest;
  Then Fate will put a mattock in his hands
  And lash him while he digs himself the grave
  That is to be the pallet and the shroud
  Of his poor blundering bones. The man who saw
  Too much must have an eye to see at last
  Where Fate has marked the clay; and he shall delve,
  Although his hand may slacken, and his knees
  May rock without a method as he toils;
  For there's a delving that is to be done--
  If not for God, for man. I see the light,
  But I shall fall before I come to it;
  For I am old. I was young yesterday.
  Time's hand that I have held away so long
  Grips hard now on my shoulder. Time has won.
  Tomorrow I shall say to Vivian
  That I am old and gaunt and garrulous,
  And tell her one more story: I am old."

  There were long hours for Merlin after that,
  And much long wandering in his prison-yard,
  Where now the progress of each heavy step
  Confirmed a stillness of impending change
  And imminent farewell. To Vivian's ear
  There came for many days no other story
  Than Merlin's iteration of his love
  And his departure from Broceliande,
  Where Merlin still remained. In Vivian's eye,
  There was a quiet kindness, and at times
  A smoky flash of incredulity
  That faded into pain. Was this the Merlin--
  This incarnation of idolatry
  And all but supplicating deference--
  This bowed and reverential contradiction
  Of all her dreams and her realities--
  Was this the Merlin who for years and years
  Before she found him had so made her love him
  That kings and princes, thrones and diadems,
  And honorable men who drowned themselves
  For love, were less to her than melon-shells?
  Was this the Merlin whom her fate had sent
  One spring day to come ringing at her gate,
  Bewildering her love with happy terror
  That later was to be all happiness?
  Was this the Merlin who had made the world
  Half over, and then left it with a laugh
  To be the youngest, oldest, weirdest, gayest,
  And wisest, and sometimes the foolishest
  Of all the men of her consideration?
  Was this the man who had made other men
  As ordinary as arithmetic?
  Was this man Merlin who came now so slowly
  Towards the fountain where she stood again
  In shimmering green? Trembling, he took her hands
  And pressed them fondly, one upon the other,
  Between his:

                "I was wrong that other day,
  For I have one more story. I am old."
  He waited like one hungry for the word
  Not said; and she found in his eyes a light
  As patient as a candle in a window
  That looks upon the sea and is a mark
  For ships that have gone down. "Tomorrow," he said;
  "Tomorrow I shall go away again
  To Camelot; and I shall see the King
  Once more; and I may come to you again
  Once more; and I shall go away again
  For ever. There is now no more than that
  For me to do; and I shall do no more.
  I saw too much when I saw Camelot;
  And I saw farther backward into Time,
  And forward, than a man may see and live,
  When I made Arthur king. I saw too far,
  But not so far as this. Fate played with me
  As I have played with Time; and Time, like me,
  Being less than Fate, will have on me his vengeance.
  On Fate there is no vengeance, even for God."
  He drew her slowly into his embrace
  And held her there, but when he kissed her lips
  They were as cold as leaves and had no answer;
  For Time had given him then, to prove his words,
  A frozen moment of a woman's life.

  When Merlin the next morning came again
  In the same pilgrim robe that he had worn
  While he sat waiting where the cherry-blossoms
  Outside the gate fell on him and around him,
  Grief came to Vivian at the sight of him;
  And like a flash of a swift ugly knife,
  A blinding fear came with it. "Are you going?"
  She said, more with her lips than with her voice;
  And he said, "I am going. Blaise and I
  Are going down together to the shore,
  And Blaise is coming back. For this one day
  Be good enough to spare him, for I like him.
  I tell you now, as once I told the King,
  That I can be no more than what I was,
  And I can say no more than I have said.
  Sometimes you told me that I spoke too long,
  And sent me off to wander. That was good.
  I go now for another wandering,
  And I pray God that all be well with you."

  For long there was a whining in her ears
  Of distant wheels departing. When it ceased,
  She closed the gate again so quietly
  That Merlin could have heard no sound of it.


VII

  By Merlin's Rock, where Dagonet the fool
  Was given through many a dying afternoon
  To sit and meditate on human ways
  And ways divine, Gawaine and Bedivere
  Stood silent, gazing down on Camelot.
  The two had risen and were going home:
  "It hits me sore, Gawaine," said Bedivere,
  "To think on all the tumult and affliction
  Down there, and all the noise and preparation
  That hums of coming death, and, if my fears
  Be born of reason, of what's more than death.
  Wherefore, I say to you again, Gawaine,--
  To you--that this late hour is not too late
  For you to change yourself and change the King;
  For though the King may love me with a love
  More tried, and older, and more sure, may be,
  Than for another, for such a time as this
  The friend who turns him to the world again
  Shall have a tongue more gracious and an eye
  More shrewd than mine. For such a time as this
  The King must have a glamour to persuade him."

  "The King shall have a glamour, and anon,"
  Gawaine said, and he shot death from his eyes;
  "If you were King, as Arthur is--or was--
  And Lancelot had carried off your Queen,
  And killed a score or so of your best knights--
  Not mentioning my two brothers, whom he slew
  Unarmored and unarmed--God save your wits!
  Two stewards with skewers could have done as much,
  And you and I might now be rotting for it."

  "But Lancelot's men were crowded,--they were crushed;
  And there was nothing for them but to strike
  Or die, not seeing where they struck. Think you
  They would have slain Gareth and Gaheris,
  And Tor, and all those other friends of theirs?
  God's mercy for the world he made, I say,
  And for the blood that writes the story of it.
  Gareth and Gaheris, Tor and Lamorak,--
  All dead, with all the others that are dead!
  These years have made me turn to Lamorak
  For counsel--and now Lamorak is dead."
  "Why do you fling those two names in my face?
  'Twas Modred made an end of Lamorak,
  Not I; and Lancelot now has done for Tor.
  I'll urge no king on after Lancelot
  For such a two as Tor and Lamorak:
  Their father killed my father, and their friend
  Was Lancelot, not I. I'll own my fault--
  I'm living; and while I've a tongue can talk,
  I'll say this to the King: 'Burn Lancelot
  By inches till he give you back the Queen;
  Then hang him--drown him--or do anything
  To rid the world of him.' He killed my brothers,
  And he was once my friend. Now damn the soul
  Of him who killed my brothers! There you have me."

  "You are a strong man, Gawaine, and your strength
  Goes ill where foes are. You may cleave their limbs
  And heads off, but you cannot damn their souls;
  What you may do now is to save their souls,
  And bodies too, and like enough your own.
  Remember that King Arthur is a king,
  And where there is a king there is a kingdom
  Is not the kingdom any more to you
  Than one brief enemy? Would you see it fall,
  And the King with it, for one mortal hate
  That burns out reason? Gawaine, you are king
  Today. Another day may see no king
  But Havoc, if you have no other word
  For Arthur now than hate for Lancelot.
  Is not the world as large as Lancelot?
  Is Lancelot, because one woman's eyes
  Are brighter when they look on him, to sluice
  The world with angry blood? Poor flesh! Poor flesh!
  And you, Gawaine,--are you so gaffed with hate
  You cannot leave it and so plunge away
  To stiller places and there see, for once,
  What hangs on this pernicious expedition
  The King in his insane forgetfulness
  Would undertake--with you to drum him on?
  Are you as mad as he and Lancelot
  Made ravening into one man twice as mad
  As either? Is the kingdom of the world,
  Now rocking, to go down in sound and blood
  And ashes and sick ruin, and for the sake
  Of three men and a woman? If it be so,
  God's mercy for the world he made, I say,--
  And say again to Dagonet. Sir Fool,
  Your throne is empty, and you may as well
  Sit on it and be ruler of the world
  From now till supper-time."

                              Sir Dagonet,
  Appearing, made reply to Bedivere's
  Dry welcome with a famished look of pain,
  On which he built a smile: "If I were King,
  You, Bedivere, should be my counsellor;
  And we should have no more wars over women.
  I'll sit me down and meditate on that."
  Gawaine, for all his anger, laughed a little,
  And clapped the fool's lean shoulder; for he loved him
  And was with Arthur when he made him knight.
  Then Dagonet said on to Bedivere,
  As if his tongue would make a jest of sorrow:
  "Sometime I'll tell you what I might have done
  Had I been Lancelot and you King Arthur--
  Each having in himself the vicious essence
  That now lives in the other and makes war.
  When all men are like you and me, my lord,
  When all are rational or rickety,
  There may be no more war. But what's here now?
  Lancelot loves the Queen, and he makes war
  Of love; the King, being bitten to the soul
  By love and hate that work in him together,
  Makes war of madness; Gawaine hates Lancelot,
  And he, to be in tune, makes war of hate;
  Modred hates everything, yet he can see
  With one damned illegitimate small eye
  His father's crown, and with another like it
  He sees the beauty of the Queen herself;
  He needs the two for his ambitious pleasure,
  And therefore he makes war of his ambition;
  And somewhere in the middle of all this
  There's a squeezed world that elbows for attention.
  Poor Merlin, buried in Broceliande!
  He must have had an academic eye
  For woman when he founded Arthur's kingdom,
  And in Broceliande he may be sorry.
  Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols. God be with him!
  I'm glad they tell me there's another world,
  For this one's a disease without a doctor."

  "No, not so bad as that," said Bedivere;
  "The doctor, like ourselves, may now be learning;
  And Merlin may have gauged his enterprise
  Whatever the cost he may have paid for knowing.
  We pass, but many are to follow us,
  And what they build may stay; though I believe
  Another age will have another Merlin,
  Another Camelot, and another King.
  Sir Dagonet, farewell."

                        "Farewell, Sir Knight,
  And you, Sir Knight: Gawaine, you have the world
  Now in your fingers--an uncommon toy,
  Albeit a small persuasion in the balance
  With one man's hate. I'm glad you're not a fool,
  For then you might be rickety, as I am,
  And rational as Bedivere. Farewell.
  I'll sit here and be king. God save the King!"

  But Gawaine scowled and frowned and answered nothing
  As he went slowly down with Bedivere
  To Camelot, where Arthur's army waited
  The King's word for the melancholy march
  To Joyous Gard, where Lancelot hid the Queen
  And armed his host, and there was now no joy,
  As there was now no joy for Dagonet
  While he sat brooding, with his wan cheek-bones
  Hooked with his bony fingers: "Go, Gawaine,"
  He mumbled: "Go your way, and drag the world
  Along down with you. What's a world or so
  To you if you can hide an ell of iron
  Somewhere in Lancelot, and hear him wheeze
  And sputter once or twice before he goes
  Wherever the Queen sends him? There's a man
  Who should have been a king, and would have been,
  Had he been born so. So should I have been
  A king, had I been born so, fool or no:
  King Dagonet, or Dagonet the King;
  King-Fool, Fool-King; 'twere not impossible.
  I'll meditate on that and pray for Arthur,
  Who made me all I am, except a fool.
  Now he goes mad for love, as I might go
  Had I been born a king and not a fool.
  Today I think I'd rather be a fool;
  Today the world is less than one scared woman--
  Wherefore a field of waving men may soon
  Be shorn by Time's indifferent scythe, because
  The King is mad. The seeds of history
  Are small, but given a few gouts of warm blood
  For quickening, they sprout out wondrously
  And have a leaping growth whereof no man
  May shun such harvesting of change or death,
  Or life, as may fall on him to be borne.
  When I am still alive and rickety,
  And Bedivere's alive and rational--
  If he come out of this, and there's a doubt,--
  The King, Gawaine, Modred, and Lancelot
  May all be lying underneath a weight
  Of bloody sheaves too heavy for their shoulders,
  All spent, and all dishonored, and all dead;
  And if it come to be that this be so,
  And it be true that Merlin saw the truth,
  Such harvest were the best. Your fool sees not
  So far as Merlin sees: yet if he saw
  The truth--why then, such harvest were the best.
  I'll pray for Arthur; I can do no more."

  "Why not for Merlin? Or do you count him,
  In this extreme, so foreign to salvation
  That prayer would be a stranger to his name?"

  Poor Dagonet, with terror shaking him,
  Stood up and saw before him an old face
  Made older with an inch of silver beard,
  And faded eyes more eloquent of pain
  And ruin than all the faded eyes of age
  Till now had ever been, although in them
  There was a mystic and intrinsic peace
  Of one who sees where men of nearer sight
  See nothing. On their way to Camelot,
  Gawaine and Bedivere had passed him by,
  With lax attention for the pilgrim cloak
  They passed, and what it hid: yet Merlin saw
  Their faces, and he saw the tale was true
  That he had lately drawn from solemn strangers.

  "Well, Dagonet, and by your leave," he said,
  "I'll rest my lonely relics for a while
  On this rock that was mine and now is yours.
  I favor the succession; for you know
  Far more than many doctors, though your doubt
  Is your peculiar poison. I foresaw
  Long since, and I have latterly been told
  What moves in this commotion down below
  To show men what it means. It means the end--
  If men whose tongues had less to say to me
  Than had their shoulders are adept enough
  To know; and you may pray for me or not,
  Sir Friend, Sir Dagonet."

                            "Sir Fool, you mean,"
  Dagonet said, and gazed on Merlin sadly:
  "I'll never pray again for anything,
  And last of all for this that you behold--
  The smouldering <DW19> of unlovely bones
  That God has given to me to call Myself.
  When Merlin comes to Dagonet for prayer,
  It is indeed the end."

                          "And in the end
  Are more beginnings, Dagonet, than men
  Shall name or know today. It was the end
  Of Arthur's insubstantial majesty
  When to him and his knights the Grail foreshowed
  The quest of life that was to be the death
  Of many, and the slow discouraging
  Of many more. Or do I err in this?"

  "No," Dagonet replied; "there was a Light;
  And Galahad, in the Siege Perilous,
  Alone of all on whom it fell, was calm;
  There was a Light wherein men saw themselves
  In one another as they might become--
  Or so they dreamed. There was a long to-do,
  And Gawaine, of all forlorn ineligibles,
  Rose up the first, and cried more lustily
  Than any after him that he should find
  The Grail, or die for it,--though he did neither;
  For he came back as living and as fit
  For new and old iniquity as ever.
  Then Lancelot came back, and Bors came back,--
  Like men who had seen more than men should see,
  And still come back. They told of Percival,
  Who saw too much to make of this worn life
  A long necessity, and of Galahad,
  Who died and is alive. They all saw Something.
  God knows the meaning or the end of it,
  But they saw Something. And if I've an eye,
  Small joy has the Queen been to Lancelot
  Since he came back from seeing what he saw;
  For though his passion hold him like hot claws,
  He's neither in the world nor out of it.
  Gawaine is king, though Arthur wears the crown;
  And Gawaine's hate for Lancelot is the sword
  That hangs by one of Merlin's fragile hairs
  Above the world. Were you to see the King,
  The frenzy that has overthrown his wisdom,
  Instead of him and his upheaving empire,
  Might have an end."

                            "I came to see the King,"
  Said Merlin, like a man who labors hard
  And long with an importunate confession.
  "No, Dagonet, you cannot tell me why,
  Although your tongue is eager with wild hope
  To tell me more than I may tell myself
  About myself. All this that was to be
  Might show to man how vain it were to wreck
  The world for self, if it were all in vain.
  When I began with Arthur I could see
  In each bewildered man who dots the earth
  A moment with his days a groping thought
  Of an eternal will, strangely endowed
  With merciful illusions whereby self
  Becomes the will itself and each man swells
  In fond accordance with his agency.
  Now Arthur, Modred, Lancelot, and Gawaine
  Are swollen thoughts of this eternal will
  Which have no other way to find the way
  That leads them on to their inheritance
  Than by the time-infuriating flame
  Of a wrecked empire, lighted by the torch
  Of woman, who, together with the light
  That Galahad found, is yet to light the world."

  A wan smile crept across the weary face
  Of Dagonet the fool: "If you knew that
  Before your burial in Broceliande,
  No wonder your eternal will accords
  With all your dreams of what the world requires.
  My master, I may say this unto you
  Because I am a fool, and fear no man;
  My fear is that I've been a groping thought
  That never swelled enough. You say the torch
  Of woman and the light that Galahad found
  Are some day to illuminate the world?
  I'll meditate on that. The world is done
  For me; and I have been, to make men laugh,
  A lean thing of no shape and many capers.
  I made them laugh, and I could laugh anon
  Myself to see them killing one another
  Because a woman with corn- hair
  Has pranked a man with horns. 'Twas but a flash
  Of chance, and Lancelot, the other day
  That saved this pleasing sinner from the fire
  That she may spread for thousands. Were she now
  The cinder the King willed, or were you now
  To see the King, the fire might yet go out;
  But the eternal will says otherwise.
  So be it; I'll assemble certain gold
  That I may say is mine and get myself
  Away from this accurst unhappy court,
  And in some quiet place where shepherd clowns
  And cowherds may have more respondent ears
  Than kings and kingdom-builders, I shall troll
  Old men to easy graves and be a child
  Again among the children of the earth.
  I'll have no more of kings, even though I loved
  King Arthur, who is mad, as I could love
  No other man save Merlin, who is dead."

  "Not wholly dead, but old. Merlin is old."
  The wizard shivered as he spoke, and stared
  Away into the sunset where he saw
  Once more, as through a cracked and cloudy glass,
  A crumbling sky that held a crimson cloud
  Wherein there was a town of many towers
  All swayed and shaken, in a woman's hand
  This time, till out of it there spilled and flashed
  And tumbled, like loose jewels, town, towers, and walls,
  And there was nothing but a crumbling sky
  That made anon of black and red and ruin
  A wild and final rain on Camelot.
  He bowed, and pressed his eyes: "Now by my soul,
  I have seen this before--all black and red--
  Like that--like that--like Vivian--black and red;
  Like Vivian, when her eyes looked into mine
  Across the cups of gold. A flute was playing--
  Then all was black and red."

                                Another smile
  Crept over the wan face of Dagonet,
  Who shivered in his turn. "The torch of woman,"
  He muttered, "and the light that Galahad found,
  Will some day save us all, as they saved Merlin.
  Forgive my shivering wits, but I am cold,
  And it will soon be dark. Will you go down
  With me to see the King, or will you not?
  If not, I go tomorrow to the shepherds.
  The world is mad, and I'm a groping thought
  Of your eternal will; the world and I
  Are strangers, and I'll have no more of it--
  Except you go with me to see the King."

  "No, Dagonet, you cannot leave me now,"
  Said Merlin, sadly. "You and I are old;
  And, as you say, we fear no man. God knows
  I would not have the love that once you had
  For me be fear of me, for I am past
  All fearing now. But Fate may send a fly
  Sometimes, and he may sting us to the grave,
  So driven to test our faith in what we see.
  Are you, now I am coming to an end,
  As Arthur's days are coming to an end,
  To sting me like a fly? I do not ask
  Of you to say that you see what I see,
  Where you see nothing; nor do I require
  Of any man more vision than is his;
  Yet I could wish for you a larger part
  For your last entrance here than this you play
  Tonight of a sad insect stinging Merlin.
  The more you sting, the more he pities you;
  And you were never overfond of pity.
  Had you been so, I doubt if Arthur's love,
  Or Gawaine's, would have made of you a knight.
  No, Dagonet, you cannot leave me now,
  Nor would you if you could. You call yourself
  A fool, because the world and you are strangers.
  You are a proud man, Dagonet; you have suffered
  What I alone have seen. You are no fool;
  And surely you are not a fly to sting
  My love to last regret. Believe or not
  What I have seen, or what I say to you,
  But say no more to me that I am dead
  Because the King is mad, and you are old,
  And I am older. In Broceliande
  Time overtook me as I knew he must;
  And I, with a fond overplus of words,
  Had warned the lady Vivian already,
  Before these wrinkles and this hesitancy
  Inhibiting my joints oppressed her sight
  With age and dissolution. She said once
  That she was cold and cruel; but she meant
  That she was warm and kind, and over-wise
  For woman in a world where men see not
  Beyond themselves. She saw beyond them all,
  As I did; and she waited, as I did,
  The coming of a day when cherry-blossoms
  Were to fall down all over me like snow
  In springtime. I was far from Camelot
  That afternoon; and I am farther now
  From her. I see no more for me to do
  Than to leave her and Arthur and the world
  Behind me, and to pray that all be well
  With Vivian, whose unquiet heart is hungry
  For what is not, and what shall never be
  Without her, in a world that men are making,
  Knowing not how, nor caring yet to know
  How slowly and how grievously they do it,--
  Though Vivian, in her golden shell of exile,
  Knows now and cares, not knowing that she cares,
  Nor caring that she knows. In time to be,
  The like of her shall have another name
  Than Vivian, and her laugh shall be a fire,
  Not shining only to consume itself
  With what it burns. She knows not yet the name
  Of what she is, for now there is no name;
  Some day there shall be. Time has many names,
  Unwritten yet, for what we say is old
  Because we are so young that it seems old.
  And this is all a part of what I saw
  Before you saw King Arthur. When we parted,
  I told her I should see the King again,
  And, having seen him, might go back again
  To see her face once more. But I shall see
  No more the lady Vivian. Let her love
  What man she may, no other love than mine
  Shall be an index of her memories.
  I fear no man who may come after me,
  And I see none. I see her, still in green,
  Beside the fountain. I shall not go back.
  We pay for going back; and all we get
  Is one more needless ounce of weary wisdom
  To bring away with us. If I come not,
  The lady Vivian will remember me,
  And say: 'I knew him when his heart was young,
  Though I have lost him now. Time called him home,
  And that was as it was; for much is lost
  Between Broceliande and Camelot.'"

  He stared away into the west again,
  Where now no crimson cloud or phantom town
  Deceived his eyes. Above a living town
  There were gray clouds and ultimate suspense,
  And a cold wind was coming. Dagonet,
  Now crouched at Merlin's feet in his dejection,
  Saw multiplying lights far down below,
  Where lay the fevered streets. At length he felt
  On his lean shoulder Merlin's tragic hand
  And trembled, knowing that a few more days
  Would see the last of Arthur and the first
  Of Modred, whose dark patience had attained
  To one precarious half of what he sought:
  "And even the Queen herself may fall to him,"
  Dagonet murmured.--"The Queen fall to Modred?
  Is that your only fear tonight?" said Merlin;
  "She may, but not for long."--"No, not my fear;
  For I fear nothing. But I wish no fate
  Like that for any woman the King loves,
  Although she be the scourge and end of him
  That you saw coming, as I see it now."
  Dagonet shook, but he would have no tears,
  He swore, for any king, queen, knave, or wizard--
  Albeit he was a stranger among those
  Who laughed at him because he was a fool.
  "You said the truth, I cannot leave you now,"
  He stammered, and was angry for the tears
  That mocked his will and choked him.

                                      Merlin smiled,
  Faintly, and for the moment: "Dagonet,
  I need your word as one of Arthur's knights
  That you will go on with me to the end
  Of my short way, and say unto no man
  Or woman that you found or saw me here.
  No good would follow, for a doubt would live
  Unstifled of my loyalty to him
  Whose deeds are wrought for those who are to come;
  And many who see not what I have seen,
  Or what you see tonight, would prattle on
  For ever, and their children after them,
  Of what might once have been had I gone down
  With you to Camelot to see the King.
  I came to see the King,--but why see kings?
  All this that was to be is what I saw
  Before there was an Arthur to be king,
  And so to be a mirror wherein men
  May see themselves, and pause. If they see not,
  Or if they do see and they ponder not,--
  I saw; but I was neither Fate nor God.
  I saw too much; and this would be the end,
  Were there to be an end. I saw myself--
  A sight no other man has ever seen;
  And through the dark that lay beyond myself
  I saw two fires that are to light the world."
  On Dagonet the silent hand of Merlin
  Weighed now as living iron that held him down
  With a primeval power. Doubt, wonderment,
  Impatience, and a self-accusing sorrow
  Born of an ancient love, possessed and held him
  Until his love was more than he could name,
  And he was Merlin's fool, not Arthur's now:
  "Say what you will, I say that I'm the fool
  Of Merlin, King of Nowhere; which is Here.
  With you for king and me for court, what else
  Have we to sigh for but a place to sleep?
  I know a tavern that will take us in;
  And on the morrow I shall follow you
  Until I die for you. And when I die ..."--
  "Well, Dagonet, the King is listening."--
  And Dagonet answered, hearing in the words
  Of Merlin a grave humor and a sound
  Of graver pity, "I shall die a fool."
  He heard what might have been a father's laugh,
  Faintly behind him; and the living weight
  Of Merlin's hand was lifted. They arose,
  And, saying nothing, found a groping way
  Down through the gloom together. Fiercer now,
  The wind was like a flying animal
  That beat the two of them incessantly
  With icy wings, and bit them as they went.
  The rock above them was an empty place
  Where neither seer nor fool should view again
  The stricken city. Colder blew the wind
  Across the world, and on it heavier lay
  The shadow and the burden of the night;
  And there was darkness over Camelot.


Printed in the United States of America.




The following pages contain advertisements of books by the same author.


BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Man Against the Sky

_Cloth, $1.00; Leather, $1.60_

It has been some years since Mr. Robinson has given us a new collection of
poems. Those who remember "Captain Craig, A Book of Poems," a volume which
brought to its author the heartiest of congratulations, placing him at
once in the rank of those American writers whose contributions to
literature are of permanent value, will welcome this new work and will
find that their anticipation of it and hopes for it have been realized.

"A new book by Edwin Arlington Robinson is something of a literary
event.... In these selections we have the richly assorted best of
Robinson; which is the same as saying that we have here one of the most
direct and distinctive writers of the day."--_Chicago Evening Post._

"He is writing as good poetry as is being written on either side of the
Atlantic."--_New York Sun._

"Mr. Robinson, with his fascinating, discursive style, is one of the best
singers in this country to-day."--_Springfield Republican._


The Porcupine: A Drama in Three Acts

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25_

Edwin Arlington Robinson's comedy "Van Zorn" proved him to be one of the
most accomplished of the younger generation of American dramatists. Of
this play the _Boston Transcript_ said "It is an effective presentation of
modern life in New York City, in which a poet shows his skill of
playwriting ... he brings to the American drama to-day a thing it sadly
lacks, and that is character." In manner and technique Mr. Robinson's new
play "The Porcupine" recalls some of the work of Ibsen. Written adroitly
and with the literary cleverness exhibited in "Van Zorn" it tells a story
of a domestic entanglement in a dramatic fashion well calculated to hold
the reader's attention.

"He writes admirable dialogue, and his characters have strong and
consistent individuality. Moreover, he has freshness of invention, and
knows how to unfold an interesting story in dramatic form."--_Nation._


Van Zorn: A Comedy

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25_

"The setting is American and the characters are true to the American
type.... The second act is drama in its highest expression."--_San
Francisco Chronicle._

"He has done something unique. His comedy depicts life among the artists
in Manhattan. It is the first time it has been done by one of the
initiated."--_Brooklyn Daily Eagle._

"'Van Zorn,' by Edwin Arlington Robinson, might be called a comedy of
temperament, introspection, and destiny. It tells an interesting story and
is stimulative to thought."--_Providence Journal._

"An effective presentation of modern life in New York City, in which a
poet shows his skill at prose playwriting ... he brings into the American
drama to-day a thing it sadly lacks, and that is character."--_Boston
Transcript._

"A lively tale told with humor and dramatic force."--_Booknews Monthly._

"... the attraction of the play is the manner in which from scene to scene
the interest is piqued, until at last there is a denouement almost Shavian
in its impudence, that is, in the impudence of the main
characters."--_Kentucky Post._


Captain Craig, A Book of Poems

_Revised edition with additional poems, 12mo, cloth, $1.25_

"There are few poets writing in English to-day whose work is so permeated
by individual charm as is Mr. Robinson's. Always one feels the presence of
a man behind the poet--a man who knows life and people and things and
writes of them clearly, with a subtle poetic insight that is not visible
in the work of any other living writer."--_Brooklyn Daily Eagle._

"The 'Book of Annandale,' a splendid poem included in this collection, is
one of the most moving emotional narratives found in modern
poetry."--_Review of Reviews._

"... His handling of Greek themes reveals him as a lyrical poet of
inimitable charm and skill."--_Reedy's Mirror._

"A poem that must endure; if things that deserve long life get it."--_N.
Y. Evening Sun._

"Wherever you hear people who know speak of American poets ... they assume
that you take the genius and place of Edwin Arlington Robinson as
granted.... A man with something to say that has value and beauty. His
thought is deep and his ideas are high and stimulating."--_Boston
Transcript._


  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  Publisher    64-66 Fifth Avenue    New York






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Merlin, by Edwin Arlington Robinson

*** 