THE FALL OF GALAHAD. HER hair was brown, but dusted
gold
Shone on it, by a young wind blown; It lived in light and seemed to hold The sun or star shine for its own.
Her eyes were like Our Lady's, grey; They ransomed light for other light; They were a daydream of the day, The echo of a perfect night.
The beauty of her face compelled All thought, all reason, everything, Yet half-withdrew, and just withheld The crown of its imagining.
Her step was like a soft leaf's fall That wakes a sleeper in the wood.
It came, and when it went, then all Had gone from life that seemed most good.
One instant, for a moment's space,
She stood before him where he prayed ; He felt her eyes, he felt her face,— The wind that touched her in the glade.
He left his prayer, forgot the place, Forgot the Vision of the Gruel; He saw her eyes, her hair, her face,— His hilt-cross struck the Altar-rail.
The music ceased, the shrine was rent,— He never cast one glance behind, But followed on the way she went, A hidden way and hard to find.
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