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SIR GALAHAD

My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel;

They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend

On whom their favours fall!

For them I battle till the end,

To save from shame and thrall; But all my heart is drawn above,

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine:

I never felt the kiss of love,

Nor maiden's hand in mine.

More bounteous aspects on me beam,
Me mightier transports move and thrill;
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.

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When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns:

Then by some secret shrine I ride;

I hear a voice but none are there;
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
The silver vessels sparkle clean,

The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;

I leap on board: no helmsman steers:
I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the Holy Grail:
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,

And starlike mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne

Thro' dreaming towns I go,

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.

The tempest crackles on the leads,

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;

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But o'er the dark a glory spreads,

And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight-to me is given

Such hope, I know not fear;

I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.

I muse on joy that will not cease,

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace,

Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand,

This mortal armour that I wear,

This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

The clouds are broker in the sky,
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
“O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on the prize is near."
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,

Until I find the Holy Grail.

1834. 1842.

Lord Tennyson,

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TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA

I WONDER do you feel to-day

As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray

In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May?

For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.

Help me to hold it! First it left

The yellowing fennel, run to seed

There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin; yonder weed

Took up the floating weft,

Where one small orange cup amassed

Five beetles-blind and green they grope

Among the honey-meal: and last,

Everywhere on the grassy slope

I traced it. Hold it fast!

The champaign with its endless fleece

Of feathery grasses everywhere!

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Silence and passion, joy and peace,

An everlasting wash of airRome's ghost since her decease.

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Such life here, through such lengths of hours,

Such miracles performed in play,

Such primal naked forms of flowers,

Such letting nature have her way While heaven looks from its towers!

How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control

To love or not to love?

I would that you were all to me,

You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!

Where does the fault lie? What the core O' the wound, since wound must be?

I would I could adopt your will,

See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill

At your soul's springs,-your part my part In life, for good and ill.

No, I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul's warmth,-I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak-
Then the good minute goes.

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