I.

    Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies,
      And the knights still hurried amain
    To the tournament under the ladies’ eyes,
      Where the jousters were Heart and Brain.

    II.

    Flourished the trumpets, entered Heart,
      A youth in crimson and gold;
    Flourished again; Brain stood apart,
      Steel-armoured, dark and cold.

    III.

    Heart’s palfrey caracoled gaily round,
      Heart tra-li-ra’d merrily;
    But Brain sat still, with never a sound,
      So cynical-calm was he.

    IV.

    Heart’s helmet-crest bore favours three
      From his lady’s white hand caught;
    While Brain wore a plumeless casque; not he
      Or favour gave or sought.

    V.

    The trumpet blew; Heart shot a glance
      To catch his lady’s eye. 
    But Brain gazed straight ahead, his lance
      To aim more faithfully.

    VI.

    They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled;
      Brain rose again, ungloved;
    Heart, dying, smiled and faintly said,
     “My love to my beloved.”

SIDNEY LANIER.

 THE WIND AND THE MOON.

Little Laddie, do you remember learning “The Wind and the Moon”?  You were eight or nine years old, and you shut your eyes and puffed out your cheeks when you came to the line “He blew and He blew.”  The saucy wind made a great racket and the calm moon never noticed it.  That gave you a great deal of pleasure, didn’t it?  We did not care much for the noisy, conceited wind. (1824-.)

    Said the Wind to the Moon, “I will blow you out,
                You stare
                In the air
                Like a ghost in a chair,
    Always looking what I am about—­
    I hate to be watched; I’ll blow you out.”

    The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. 
                So, deep
                On a heap
                Of clouds to sleep,
    Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon,
    Muttering low, “I’ve done for that Moon.”

    He turned in his bed; she was there again! 
                On high
                In the sky,
                With her one ghost eye,
    The Moon shone white and alive and plain. 
    Said the Wind, “I will blow you out again.”

    The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. 
               “With my sledge,
                And my wedge,
                I have knocked off her edge! 
    If only I blow right fierce and grim,
    The creature will soon be dimmer than dim.”

    He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. 
               “One puff
                More’s enough
                To blow her to snuff! 
    One good puff more where the last was bred,
    And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread.”