The very kisses of those perished knights
With woven records of long-dead delights.
Below the lodge within an urnéd shell
The water pooled, and made a tinkling well,
Then, slipping thence, through dripping shadows fell
From rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,
With Morgane's hollow lute, as eve drew on
Came all alone: not ev'n her brindled hound
To bound before him o'er the gleaming ground;
No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,