Idylls Of The King

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away. 'How he went down, ' said Gareth, 'as a false knight Or evil king before my lance if lance Were mine to use-O senseless cataract, Bearing all down in thy precipitancy- And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows And mine is living blood: thou dost His will, The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know, Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall Linger with vacillating obedience, Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to- Since the good mother holds me still a child! Good mother is bad mother unto me!