Beneath the drawbridge is the moat,
On broadened leaves the lilies float,
The white bud bursts its oozy coat.
Up from the fields of ripened corn
There comes the sound of voices borne
From where the stooks stand newly shorn.
Above her head the banner flies,
A dragon blue with banded eyes,
Grey in the sun the towers rise.
Within, the knights sit in a row,
And ladies, with their hands of snow;
The golden cup goes to and fro.
She heeds nor feast, nor song, nor wine,
She only sees the weapons shine
Upon the plains of Palestine.
She only hears the trumpets bray
Their summons through the Eastern day,
The tramp of horses far away.
Her heart sees all the far-off scene,
And, with her heart, she hears the green
Wild roll of waters in between.
The light from the horizon’s rim
Strikes, like the wings of seraphim,
Upon the fountain’s circled brim.
A shadow lies before her face,
Sir Hugh has risen and left his place:
“Elayne, the seasons march apace;
Lo, patience is a good knight’s stay,
Yet comes the time when men may say
‘Who waits too long will lose the day.’
The dial by the swinging vane
Marks how the long hours wax and wane--
’Tis time the priest were brought, Elayne.
Yon knight who fights in Palestine,
What is his love compared with mine?
I will load your hair with jewels fine,
You shall lie on silk, you shall sit, a queen,
In costly raiment blue and green
With golden roses wrought in between.”
To where the crazy mill-house stands
He has borne her with his iron hands,
Her hair hangs down in russet bands;
He has shorn a long tress of her hair
And bound her feet so slim and fair,
He has borne her out on the mill-house stair.
“Elayne, Elayne, you are young to die,
There is none to hear should you call or cry,
Shall the water have you or shall I?”
She makes no sound; beneath the ledge
An eddy swirls among the sedge,
He takes a step to the stairs’ edge.
The mill-race, roaring far beneath,
Seems like the sound of gloating death,
She looks down and she holds her breath.
“Elayne, what think you? Which is best?”
Against the black heart in his breast
She keeps her pale face closely prest.
The mill-race, winding mile on mile,
Sounds like an angry voice the while;
He cannot see her drawn lips smile.
Like some slim beast, some snake or stoat,
She meets her teeth upon his throat,
Her fingers grasp his leathern coat.
On the top step they swing and sway,
His breath comes short, his face is grey,
The waters close with a splash of spray.
The mill-race runs till it nears the moat,
What thing does the water raise and float?
--A drowned dead man with a mark on his throat.
❦