I, polishing my master's helmet, also longed to overwhelm
The miscreants, to hew in bits the devil and his earthly realm.
A boy's high spirits, weariness, a heart impulsive as the Rhone,
The wish to get this business done, the thought of little Sunflower-tress—
A flower beside The Burr, and "Why, if knights sing rubbish, should not I?"—
The preaching man's persistence, these stirred me to action by degrees.
We had our fill at Dorylæum. Our rogues were Paladins. We won,
And weighed our booty by the ton. That night we chanted a Te Deum,
A myriad voices in the dark; they rose like one colossal lark
Ere dawn. My soul flew up with them to see the new Jerusalem