VIII
And girded with Farewell and with Godspeed
He sprang upon his steed.
And forth he fared along the broad bright way;
And mild was the young sun, and wild the breeze,
That seemed to blow to lands no eye had seen;
And Pentecost had kindled all the trees
To tremulous thin whispering flames of green,
And given to each a sacred word to say;
And wind-fine voices of the wind-borne birds
Were ever woven in among their words.
Soft-brooding o’er the hamlet where it lay,
The circling hills stood stoled with holy white,
For orchards brake to blossom in the night;
And all the morning was one blown blue flower,
And all the world was at its perfect hour.
So fared he gladly, and his spirit yearned
To do some deed fit for the deep new day.
And on the broad bright way his armour burned,
And showed him still, a shifting, waning star,
To sight that followed far.
Till, last, the fluctuant wood the flash did whelm,
That flood-like rolled in light and shadow o’er his helm.