There is not much historical truth to rely on and we have little knowledge of the development of the Arthurian legend in the early stages. Criticising Arthurian films as portraits of a certain era in history seems rather useless, because over the centuries the legend has proven it is a timeless story, applicable and adaptable to every age. Over time it has been used and enjoyed by many people, pagans as well as christians, conservatives as well as hippies, and it has been subject to both low and hight art. Therefore it is hardly surprising that the legend does not contain one single message, but many being both incredibly rich and versatile. There are on the other hand some elements in the Arturian tradition that can not be pushed aside if one wants to re tell the main story and not use the Arthurian court merely as background for a new or other hero. The adultery between Lancelot and Guinevere for instance can hardly be denied.
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I call That piece a wonder, now: She had A heart—how shall I say? My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace—all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,—good! This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
A Chaste Maid in Cheapside
Through Agony I and II America Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth, Stealing my breath of life, I will confess I love this cultured hell that tests my youth! Her vigor flows like tides into my blood, Giving me strength erect against her hate. Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood. Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state, I stand within her walls with not a shred Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer. Darkly I gaze into the days ahead, And see her might and granite wonders there, Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand, Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.
Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise. Tears fell when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep.