The snows that whitened Avalon Are lost within the rushing spring; Along the dusky forest aisles The phantom linnets soar and sing. Pale Arthur, all his wounds forgot, Must dream alone a little while Of shadowy spires of Camelot, Of Guinevere's slow smile. But I, who have no Avalon, No place of healing set apart, Walk very softly through the spring Lest April break my frozen heart. |