Lo! where are now these armoured hostsMailed for the tourneycâp-a-pie,These dames and damozelles whose ghostsMake of the past this pagentry?O sanguine book of History!Romance with perfume cloaks thy must,But he who shakes the page may see—Dust.Stiff hangs the arras in the gloom;I turn my head awhile to gaze:Here lordly stallions fret and fume,Here streams o'er briar and brake the chase.Here sounds a horn, here turns a face,How filled with fires of life and lust!Wind shakes the arras and betrays—Dust.Ephemeral hand inditing thisGreat hound that lolls against my knee,Lips pursed in thought as if to kissRegret—full soon the time must be.When one shall search, but find not ye,For that dim moth whose labours rustAll forms in time or tapestry—Dust.Forth offspring to the perch and thenClap wings—or fall, if find you mustThis saddest fate of books or men—Dust.

Lo! where are now these armoured hostsMailed for the tourneycâp-a-pie,These dames and damozelles whose ghostsMake of the past this pagentry?

Lo! where are now these armoured hosts

Mailed for the tourneycâp-a-pie,

These dames and damozelles whose ghosts

Make of the past this pagentry?

O sanguine book of History!Romance with perfume cloaks thy must,But he who shakes the page may see—Dust.

O sanguine book of History!

Romance with perfume cloaks thy must,

But he who shakes the page may see

—Dust.

Stiff hangs the arras in the gloom;I turn my head awhile to gaze:Here lordly stallions fret and fume,Here streams o'er briar and brake the chase.

Stiff hangs the arras in the gloom;

I turn my head awhile to gaze:

Here lordly stallions fret and fume,

Here streams o'er briar and brake the chase.

Here sounds a horn, here turns a face,How filled with fires of life and lust!Wind shakes the arras and betrays—Dust.

Here sounds a horn, here turns a face,

How filled with fires of life and lust!

Wind shakes the arras and betrays

—Dust.

Ephemeral hand inditing thisGreat hound that lolls against my knee,Lips pursed in thought as if to kissRegret—full soon the time must be.

Ephemeral hand inditing this

Great hound that lolls against my knee,

Lips pursed in thought as if to kiss

Regret—full soon the time must be.

When one shall search, but find not ye,For that dim moth whose labours rustAll forms in time or tapestry—Dust.

When one shall search, but find not ye,

For that dim moth whose labours rust

All forms in time or tapestry

—Dust.

Forth offspring to the perch and thenClap wings—or fall, if find you mustThis saddest fate of books or men—Dust.

Forth offspring to the perch and then

Clap wings—or fall, if find you must

This saddest fate of books or men

—Dust.

DEATH THE KNIGHTAND THE LADY

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CONTENTS