Bid me not, therefore, task my feebler pen
With dreams beyond the limits of their ken;
The phantom conjurings of the magic hour
That Gawayne passed in that enchanted bower
Must be from mortal eyes forever hid. 
But yet some part of what he felt and did
These lines must needs disclose.  As he stood there,
Breathing soft odors from the mellow air,
All hopes, all aims of noble knighthood seemed
Like the dim yesterdays of one who dreamed,
In starless caves of memory sunken deep,
And, like lost music, folded in strange sleep.

“How long, O mortal man, wilt thou give heed
To the world’s phantom voices?  The hours speed,
And fame and fortune yield to moth and rust,
And good and evil crumble into dust. 
Even now the sands are running in the glass;
Set not your heart upon vain things that pass;
Ambitions, honors, toils, are but the snare
Where lurks for aye the blind old world’s despair. 
Nay, quiet the bootless striving in your breast
And let your tired heart here at last find rest. 
In vain have joy, love, beauty, struck deep root
In your heart’s heart, unless you pluck the fruit;
Then put away the cheating soul’s pretense,
Heap high the press, fill full the cup of sense;
Shatter the idols of blind yesterday,
And let love, joy, and beauty reign alway!”

Such thoughts as these, confused and unexpressed,
Flooded the silence in Sir Gawayne’s breast. 
Meanwhile a brasier filled the scented air
With wreaths of magic mist, and he was ware
That the mist drew together like a shroud;
And then the veil was rent, and in the cloud
Stood one who seemed, in features, form, and dress,
The perfect image of all loveliness.

The wonders of that vision none could tell
Save one whose heart had felt the mystic spell. 
Once and once only, in the golden days
When youth made melody for love’s sweet lays,
In two dark eyes (yet oh, how bright, how bright!)
I saw the wakening rapture of love’s light,
And, in the hush of that still dawning, heard
From two sweet trembling lips love’s whispered word. 
The twilight deepens when the sun has set;
In memory golden glories linger yet;
But these avail not.  Though my soul lay bare,
With all those memories sanctuaried there,
That spell was human.  But the unseen power
That wove the witchery of this fairy bower,
In Gawayne’s heart such subtle magic wrought
That past and future were well-nigh forgot,
And all that earth holds else, or heaven above,
Seemed naught worth keeping, save this dream of love.