Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/205

 And how Lord Roger bore his face

A league above his spear-point, high

Above the owls, to that strong place

Among the waters—yea, yea, cry:

"What a brave champion we have got!

Sir Oliver, the flower of all

The Hainault knights." The day being hot,

He sat beneath a broad white pall,

White linen over all his steel;

What a good knight he look'd! his sword

Laid thwart his knees; he liked to feel

Its steadfast edge clear as his word.

And he look'd solemn; how his love

Smiled whitely on him, sick with fear!

How all the ladies up above

Twisted their pretty hands! so near.

The fighting was—Ellayne! Ellayne!

They cannot love like you can, who

Would burn your hands off, if that pain

Could win a kiss—am I not true

To you for ever? therefore I

Do not fear death or anything;

If I should limp home wounded, why,

While I lay sick you would but sing,

And soothe me into quiet sleep.

If they spat on the recreaunt knight,

Threw stones at him, and cursed him deep.

Why then—what then; your hand would light