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 maiden 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.

V.

    As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,
      He was ’ware of a leper, crouched by the same,
    Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;
      And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; 150
    The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,
      The flesh ’neath his armor ’gan shrink and crawl,
    And midway its leap his heart stood still
      Like a frozen waterfall;
    For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 155
    Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,
    And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,—­
    So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.

VI

    The leper raised not the gold from the dust: 
    “Better to me the poor man’s crust,
    Better the blessing of the poor, 160
    Though I turn me empty from his door;
    That is no true alms which the hand can hold;
    He gives only the worthless gold
      Who gives from a sense of duty; 165
    But he who gives a slender mite,
    And gives to that which is out of sight. 
      That thread of