Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/290

272 That tongues of beggars ravish From small stout hands so lavish Of their store.

Sweet hardy kindly hands Like these were his that stands With heel on gorge Seen trampling down the dragon On sign or flask or flagon, Sweet Saint George.

Some tournament, perchance, Of hands that couch no lance, Might mark this spot Your lists, if here some pleasant Small Guenevere were present, Launcelot.

My brave bright flower, you need No foolish song, nor heed It more than spring The sighs of winter stricken Dead when your haunts requicken Here, my king.

Yet O, how hardly may The wheels of singing stay That whirl along Bright paths whence echo raises The phantom of your praises, Child, my song!