The jest seemed fair indeed; but none the less
No knight showed any undue forwardness
To seize the offer.  Some with laughter free
Daffed it aside; while others carelessly
Strolled to the farthest corners of the hall
As if they had not heard his words at all,
And whistled with an air of idle ease,
Or studied figures in the tapestries. 
Not so Sir Gawayne.  Vexed in mind he stood
With downcast eyes, and knew not what he would. 
Trained in the school of chivalry to prize
His honor as the light of his dear eyes,
He held his life, his fortunes, everything,
In sacred trust for knighthood and his king,
And in the battle-field or tilting-yard
He met his foe full-fronted, and struck hard. 
But now it seemed a foolish thing to throw
One’s whole life to the fortune of a blow. 
True valor breathes not in the braggart vaunt;
True honor takes no shame from idle taunt;
So let this wizard, if he wants to, scoff;
Why should our hero have his head cut off?

While thus Sir Gawayne, wrapped in thought intense,
Debated honor versus common sense,
The stranger knight was casting his green glance
Around the circling throng,—­until by chance
He met the eyes of Lady Elfinhart,
And—­did she flush?—­and did the Green Knight start? 
Surely a quiver twinkled in each eye;
But what of that?  It need not signify: 
Beneath his glance a brave man well might flush;
What wonder then that a fair maid should blush? 
And as for him, no man that ever loved
Could look upon her loveliness unmoved.

Could I but picture her—­ah, you would deem
My tale the figment of a poet’s dream;
And if you saw her, (could such bliss be given),
You’ld think yourself in dreamland—­or in heaven. 
Not the red rapture of new-wakened roses,
When morning dew their soul of love uncloses,
(Roses that must be wooed,—­nor may be won
Save by the prince of lovers, the warm sun),
Not the fair lily, nor the violet shy,
Whose heart’s love lurks deep in her still blue eye,
Nor any flower, the loveliest and the best,
Can image to you half the charm compressed
In those dear eyes, those lips,—­nay, every part
That made that sum of witcheries—­Elfinhart.

Her face was a dim dream of shadowy light,
Like misty moonbeams on the fields of night,
And in her voice sweet nature’s sweetest tunes
Sang the glad song of twenty cloudless Junes. 
Her raiment,—­nay; go, reader, if you please,
To some sage Treatise on Antiquities,
Whence writers of historical romances
Cull old embroideries for their new-spun fancies;
I care not for the trivial, nor the fleeting. 
Beneath her dress a woman’s heart was beating
The rhythm of love’s eternal eloquence,
And I confess to you, in confidence,
Though flowers have grown a thousand years above her,
Unseen, unknown, with all my soul I love her.