WHAT is it I am waiting for? My footfall in the corridor Jars upward through the night, and swings The brazen silence till it rings Like any bell. My weak knees faint Before the sad face of my saint, And, 'twixt my lifted eyes and tears, Dim lists of mounted cavaliers Swim past. . . . A nodding plume that dips To brush the dead prayers from my lips Like dust --. God's mercy! rid my sight Of Launcelot, or blind me quite! I know what duty is! Ah, Christ! The memory of our latest tryst Is fanged within my very soul! . . . I swear to you, in all control I held myself! . . . 'Twas love, I wis, That sprang upon that kiss of his, And drank and drained it to the lees Of three God-shaken destinies. 'Twas love, I tell you, wild, insane, Stark mad and babbling, wanton, vain -- But tell me, Where is Arthur? -- or, What is it I am waiting for? |