Lancelot II by Edwin Arlington Robinson

THE FLASH of oak leaves over Guinevere

That afternoon, with the sun going down, / Made memories there for Lancelot, although

The woman who in silence looked at him

Now seemed his inventory of the world

That he must lose, or suffer to be lost

For love of her who sat there in the shade, / With oak leaves flashing in a golden light

Over her face and over her golden hair.

"Gawaine has all the graces, yet he knows; / He knows enough to be the end of us,

If so he would," she said. "He knows and laughs

And we are at the mercy of a man

Who, if the stars went out, would only laugh."

She looked away at a small swinging blossom, / And then she looked intently at her fingers,

While a frown gathered slowly round her eyes, / And wrinkled her white forehead.

Lancelot, / Scarce knowing whether to himself he spoke

Or to the Queen, said emptily: "As for Gawaine,

My question is, if any curious hind

Or knight that is alive in Britain breathing, / Or prince, or king, knows more of us, or less, / Than Gawaine, in his gay complacency, / Knows or believes he knows. There's over much

Of knowing in this realm of many tongues, / Where deeds are less to those who tell of them

Than are the words they sow; and you and I

Are like to yield a granary of such words, / For God knows what next harvesting. Gawain