PART FIRST.

I.

    “My golden spurs now bring to me,
      And bring to me my richest mail,
    For to-morrow I go over land and sea,
      In search of the Holy Grail;
    Shall never a bed for me be spread, 100
    Nor shall a pillow be under my head,
    Till I begin my vow to keep;
    Here on the rushes will I sleep,
    And perchance there may come a vision true
    Ere day create the world anew.” 105
      Slowly Sir Launfal’s eyes grew dim,
      Slumber fell like a cloud on him,
    And into his soul the vision flew.

II.

    The crows flapped over by twos and threes,
    In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, 110
      The little birds sang as if it were
      The one day of summer in all the year,
    And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees: 
    The castle alone in the landscape lay
    Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray:  115
    ’Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree,
    And never its gates might opened be,
    Save to lord or lady of high degree;
    Summer besieged it on every side,
    But the churlish stone her assaults defied; 120
    She could not scale the chilly wall,
    Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall
    Stretched left and right,
    Over the hills and out of sight;
      Green and broad was every tent, 125
      And out of each a murmur went
    Till the breeze fell off at night.

III.

    The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
    And through the dark arch a charger sprang,
    Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 130
    In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright
    It seemed the dark castle had gathered all
    Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall
      In his siege of three hundred summers long,
    And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, 135
      Had cast them forth:  so, young and strong,
    And lightsome as a locust-leaf,
    Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail,
    To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.

IV.

    It was morning on hill and stream and tree, 140
      And morning in the young knight’s heart;
    Only the castle moodily
    Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,
      And gloomed by itself apart;
    The season brimmed all other things up 145
    Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant’s cup.