I cut him down at Camelot;
However he strives, he hides it not,
That tourney will not be forgot,
Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot,
Whatever he says she answers not.
Now tell me, you that are in love,
From the king's son to the wood-dove,
Which is the better, he or I?
For this king means that I should die
In this lone Pagan castle, where
The flowers droop in the bad air
On the September evening.
Look, now I take mine ease and sing,
Counting as but a little thing
The foolish spite of a bad king.
For these vile things that hem me in,
These Pagan beasts who live in sin,
The sickly flowers pale and wan,
The grim blue-bearded castellan,
The stanchions half worn-out with rust,
Whereto their banner vile they trust—
Why, all these things I hold them just
Like dragons in a missal-book,
Wherein, whenever we may look,
We see no horror, yea, delight
We have, the colours are so bright;
Likewise we note the specks of white,
And the great plates of burnish'd gold.
