And how Lord Roger bore his face
A league above his spear-point, high
Above the owls, to that strong place
Among the waters—yea, yea, cry:
"What a brave champion we have got!
Sir Oliver, the flower of all
The Hainault knights." The day being hot,
He sat beneath a broad white pall,
White linen over all his steel;
What a good knight he look'd! his sword
Laid thwart his knees; he liked to feel
Its steadfast edge clear as his word.
And he look'd solemn; how his love
Smiled whitely on him, sick with fear!
How all the ladies up above
Twisted their pretty hands! so near.
The fighting was—Ellayne! Ellayne!
They cannot love like you can, who
Would burn your hands off, if that pain
Could win a kiss—am I not true
To you for ever? therefore I
Do not fear death or anything;
If I should limp home wounded, why,
While I lay sick you would but sing,
And soothe me into quiet sleep.
If they spat on the recreaunt knight,
Threw stones at him, and cursed him deep.
Why then—what then; your hand would light
