“ Camelot-noon.” By William M. Hardinge. The scarlet lady of Camelot, Lo ! she leans in the July weather, Ere the July noon be hot, While the knights ride by together. “ Now,” she saith, “ might this thing be, ‘ Which of the knights would I have with me ? ” Burning blue the skies above, Red her turrets in the sun, All the July day must run Ere returns the night of love : Leaning from her balcony, “ Which of the knights,” she saith, “ for me ? ” And the sun strikes down the street— Strikes the horses as they tread, With their riders helmeted, On the pavement at her feet : And the riders glance where she Leans out from her balcony. All the sun is in her hair, All the sky is in her eyes : Each looks up in lover’s wise At the lady leaning there, While she fancies drowsily, “ Which of all these knights for me ? ” On a level with her look Runs the river, right and left, Like the silver in a weft, Like the blazon in a book ; And beneath her lies the way Where the knights ride by to-day. And blue sky and turrets red And her balcony of gold And the martial airs up-rolled Through her jasmins overhead— All about her one by one— Set her dreaming in the sun. Till the vair and samite fall Round her languid body fair, White and red about her, where She leans over from the wall— “ There they ride below,” saith she, “ Which of all these knights for me ? ” And Ser Pelleas, and Lavaine, And his brother, bold Ser Torre, And Valence and Sagramore, (Kiss them once and kiss again !) But she scorns Ser Percival Who hath sometime been her thrall. And Ser Modred, and Ser Bors, And Ser Gareth young and fine, “ Could I have this will of mine, ‘ Which should linger at my doors ? ‘ Now Sir Tristram is over sea, ‘ Which of all these knights for me ? ” In her merry mood and glad, She leans laughing out of breath, Till two nobler pass beneath— Launcelot and Galahad— And she silences her glee, “ Which of these two knights for me ? ” With a lover’s passion-hot Glance, he gazed into her face, Doffed his plume with mocking grace, Showed the brows of Launcelot. (Surely, surely, it is he Is the knight of all for thee !) But meanwhile Ser Galahad, Laughing never with them all, Twitched not once his eyelids’ fall— Grave but neither proud nor sad— And he glanced not once where she Leaned out from her balcony. Prince of innocence and love ! Sweetest eyes in all the world, Lips of purity, but curled In contempt of her above— (Not of her, but of the way Her bright house defames the day.) All aglint upon his head, On the beautiful reserve Of his strength that scorned to swerve, Were the sun’s keen arrows shed. “ Ah ! fair Christ ! ” she cried, “ ’tis he ! ‘ The one knight worth all for me.” So he passed her in his line, And she strained from out her place For one look of his sweet face, For a gesture, for a sign. But his looks are far away, Straight afront into the day. The scarlet lady of Camelot, Lo ! she lies, in the July weather, While the July noon burns hot, And the knights ride away together— Lies and cries across to the river, “ Now no knight shall be mine for ever ! ”