I know not more: nor if the nodding prize
Of lustrous laurels ere that helm did crown,
While God yet judged him vanquished, God whose eyes
Saw how his Demon smote his Angel down
In some forgotten field and left him low.
Only the perfect hour is mine to know.
X.
O you who forth along the highway ride,
Whose quest the whispering wood shall close around,
Be all adventure high that may betide,