This is the first draft of a fellow-poem to the "Wanderings of Vivian". It's in wrough shape, but the basic story is the journey of Elaine, the maiden who died for love of Lancelot, on her death barge to Caer Leon. It's couched as a song sung by Arthur's jester, Dagonet, in thoughtless mimic of a darker peace composed by the false knight Tristam in mockery of Lancelot and the Queen's guilty love. As Dagonet's mind is broken, so is the rhyme pattern, but there's an underlying logic in the images that betrays (hopefully) the fool's sense. Like I said, it's rough... ;-)
Then Dagonet sang from the broken music of his mind, the shadow of the song that Tristam made:
In the plume of foaming splendor,
past the fecund water reads,
Shot the bark of fair Ettaine,
Lilly-lady-fair Elaine,
Whom the people of that region,
Where the lady lost her reason,
And never came to her full season,
Called the maid of Astolat.
Through the fair idyllic splendor,
past the fields of verdant green,
traveled sorrow without measure,
in the bark of maiden-treasure,
that with its solemn passing,
put end to all their laughing,
and to their joyous dancing,
upon Mid-Summer’s Day.
To Caer Leon the river wended,
through the forests of the king,
where the silent beasts bore witness,
In the woods unbroken stillness,
through the vaulted gloom,
a picture of the tomb,
that swollen like a womb,
waited for the lily maiden.
Through the gates of Merlin’s marvel,
past the straining crowds of men,
went the sullen barge of sable,
as Lancelot beneath the gable,
spoke with his loyal queen,
and told her where he’d been,
how in Astolat he’d seen,
that very same young maiden.
Then Dagonet sang from the broken music of his mind, the shadow of the song that Tristam made:
In the plume of foaming splendor,
past the fecund water reads,
Shot the bark of fair Ettaine,
Lilly-lady-fair Elaine,
Whom the people of that region,
Where the lady lost her reason,
And never came to her full season,
Called the maid of Astolat.
Through the fair idyllic splendor,
past the fields of verdant green,
traveled sorrow without measure,
in the bark of maiden-treasure,
that with its solemn passing,
put end to all their laughing,
and to their joyous dancing,
upon Mid-Summer’s Day.
To Caer Leon the river wended,
through the forests of the king,
where the silent beasts bore witness,
In the woods unbroken stillness,
through the vaulted gloom,
a picture of the tomb,
that swollen like a womb,
waited for the lily maiden.
Through the gates of Merlin’s marvel,
past the straining crowds of men,
went the sullen barge of sable,
as Lancelot beneath the gable,
spoke with his loyal queen,
and told her where he’d been,
how in Astolat he’d seen,
that very same young maiden.
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