Sick of monotonous days we lost account, In fitful dreams remembering days of old And nightsth' erect Archangel on the Mount With sword that drank the dawn; the Vase of Gold The moving Grail athwart the starry fields Where all the heavenly spearmen clashed their shields.

His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise: Each hurling down a heap of things that rang Against the pavement, cast his lance aside, And doff'd his helm: and then there flutter'd in, Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues, And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his spears.

The stubborn spearmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood The instant that he fell.