In a quiet, pleasant meadow, Beneath a summer sky, Where green old trees their branches waved, And winds went singing by; Where a little brook went rippling So musically low, And passing clouds cast shadows On the waving grass below; Where low, sweet notes of brooding birds Stole out on the fragrant air, And golden sunlight shone undimmed On all most fresh and fair;-- There bloomed a lovely sisterhood Of happy little flowers, Together in this pleasant home, Through quiet summer hours.
Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, Danced like a withered leaf before the hall.
A stump of oak half-dead, From roots like some black coil of carven snakes, Clutched at the crag, and started through mid air Bearing an eagle's nest: Man was it who marred heaven's image in thee thus? The heathen-but that ever-climbing wave, Hurled back again so often in empty foam, Hath lain for years at rest-and renegades, Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere, Friends, through your manhood and your fealty,-now Make their last head like Satan in the North.
My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore.
But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place Enchaired tomorrow, arbitrate the field; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, Only to yield my Queen her own again? Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: Yet better if the King abide, and leave The leading of his younger knights to me.
Else, for the King has willed it, it is well. Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he Of whom was written, 'A sound is in his ears'? The foot that loiters, bidden go,-the glance That only seems half-loyal to command,- A manner somewhat fallen from reverence- Or have I dreamed the bearing of our knights Tells of a manhood ever less and lower?
Or whence the fear lest this my realm, upreared, By noble deeds at one with noble vows, From flat confusion and brute violences, Reel back into the beast, and be no more?
In her high bower the Queen, Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, Watched her lord pass, and knew not that she sighed. From the great deep to the great deep he goes. He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each through worship of their Queen White-robed in honour of the stainless child, And some with scattered jewels, like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire.
He looked but once, and vailed his eyes again. The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume Went down it.
Sighing weariedly, as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are past away, Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists.
He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed The dead babe and the follies of the King; And once the laces of a helmet cracked, And showed him, like a vermin in its hole, Modred, a narrow face: What faith have these in whom they sware to love?
The glory of our Round Table is no more. Art thou the purest, brother?
See, the hand Wherewith thou takest this, is red! Lest be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, Are winners in this pastime of our King.
My hand-belike the lance hath dript upon it- No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight, Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.
The snowdrop only, flowering through the year, Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide. Come-let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field.
And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a withered leaf before the hall. Fool, I came too late, the heathen wars were o'er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shell- I am but a fool to reason with a fool- Come, thou art crabbed and sour: The woods are hushed, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life-the days of frost are o'er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love-free field-we love but while we may.(* Content-type: application/alphabetnyc.comatica *) (*** Wolfram Notebook File ***) (* alphabetnyc.com *) (* CreatedBy='Mathematica ' *) (*CacheID.
Compilation of Editor's Notebook columns written by Matt Winters for the Chinook Observer and Daily Astorian newspapers in Washington and Oregon.
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See What luck Can Bring. Luck can bring you joy that is true So better stay alert and clearly view And try to understand things that are new And see what luck can bring in flying hues. This is the SpellCHEX dictionary for online spell checking.
[CHEX %PARSER= %FLOATED= %GENERATED=DR/ALL %BOUND=TRUE]. The BTBA Final5 Challenge Trophy will be played over three matches with the team who collects two wins taking home the title. The tournament will take place on the lanes at Metrodome Bowling, adjacent to the Metrodome Arena and the world-famous Weber Cup lane.