Edwin Arlington Robinson

Here you will find the Long Poem Lancelot of poet Edwin Arlington Robinson


Gawaine, aware again of Lancelot 
In the King?s garden, coughed and followed him; 
Whereat he turned and stood with folded arms 
And weary-waiting eyes, cold and half-closed? 
Hard eyes, where doubts at war with memories
Fanned a sad wrath. ?Why frown upon a friend? 
Few live that have too many,? Gawaine said, 
And wished unsaid, so thinly came the light 
Between the narrowing lids at which he gazed. 
?And who of us are they that name their friends?? 
Lancelot said. ?They live that have not any. 
Why do they live, Gawaine? Ask why, and answer.? 

Two men of an elected eminence, 
They stood for a time silent. Then Gawaine, 
Acknowledging the ghost of what was gone,
Put out his hand: ?Rather, I say, why ask? 
If I be not the friend of Lancelot, 
May I be nailed alive along the ground 
And emmets eat me dead. If I be not 
The friend of Lancelot, may I be fried
With other liars in the pans of hell. 
What item otherwise of immolation 
Your Darkness may invent, be it mine to endure 
And yours to gloat on. For the time between, 
Consider this thing you see that is my hand.
If once, it has been yours a thousand times; 
Why not again? Gawaine has never lied 
To Lancelot; and this, of all wrong days? 
This day before the day when you go south 
To God knows what accomplishment of exile?
Were surely an ill day for lies to find 
An issue or a cause or an occasion. 
King Ban your father and King Lot my father, 
Were they alive, would shake their heads in sorrow 
To see us as we are, and I shake mine
In wonder. Will you take my hand, or no? 
Strong as I am, I do not hold it out 
For ever and on air. You see?my hand.? 
Lancelot gave his hand there to Gawaine, 
Who took it, held it, and then let it go,
Chagrined with its indifference. 
?Yes, Gawaine, 
I go tomorrow, and I wish you well; 
You and your brothers, Gareth, Gaheris,? 
And Agravaine; yes, even Agravaine,
Whose tongue has told all Camelot and all Britain 
More lies than yet have hatched of Modred?s envy. 
You say that you have never lied to me, 
And I believe it so. Let it be so. 
For now and always. Gawaine, I wish you well.
Tomorrow I go south, as Merlin went, 
But not for Merlin?s end. I go, Gawaine, 
And leave you to your ways. There are ways left.? 
?There are three ways I know, three famous ways, 
And all in Holy Writ,? Gawaine said, smiling:
?The snake?s way and the eagle?s way are two, 
And then we have a man?s way with a maid? 
Or with a woman who is not a maid. 
Your late way is to send all women scudding, 
To the last flash of the last cramoisy,
While you go south to find the fires of God. 
Since we came back again to Camelot 
From our immortal Quest?I came back first? 
No man has known you for the man you were 
Before you saw whatever ?t was you saw,
To make so little of kings and queens and friends 
Thereafter. Modred? Agravaine? My brothers? 
And what if they be brothers? What are brothers, 
If they be not our friends, your friends and mine? 
You turn away, and my words are no mark
On you affection or your memory? 
So be it then, if so it is to be. 
God save you, Lancelot; for by Saint Stephen, 
You are no more than man to save yourself.? 

?Gawaine, I do not say that you are wrong,
Or that you are ill-seasoned in your lightness; 
You say that all you know is what you saw, 
And on your own averment you saw nothing. 
Your spoken word, Gawaine, I have not weighed 
In those unhappy scales of inference
That have no beam but one made out of hates 
And fears, and venomous conjecturings; 
Your tongue is not the sword that urges me 
Now out of Camelot. Two other swords 
There are that are awake, and in their scabbards
Are parching for the blood of Lancelot. 
Yet I go not away for fear of them, 
But for a sharper care. You say the truth, 
But not when you contend the fires of God 
Are my one fear,?for there is one fear more.
Therefore I go. Gawaine, I wish you well.? 

?Well-wishing in a way is well enough; 
So, in a way, is caution; so, in a way, 
Are leeches, neatherds, and astrologers. 
Lancelot, listen. Sit you down and listen:
You talk of swords and fears and banishment. 
Two swords, you say; Modred and Agravaine, 
You mean. Had you meant Gaheris and Gareth, 
Or willed an evil on them, I should welcome 
And hasten your farewell. But Agravaine
Hears little what I say; his ears are Modred?s. 
The King is Modred?s father, and the Queen 
A prepossession of Modred?s lunacy. 
So much for my two brothers whom you fear, 
Not fearing for yourself. I say to you,
Fear not for anything?and so be wise 
And amiable again as heretofore; 
Let Modred have his humor, and Agravaine 
His tongue. The two of them have done their worst, 
And havin