Reclined in revery against the root
Of a great oak, a fragment of the west,
A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed,
Skipped like a leaf the early frosts have burned,
A red oak-leaf; and like a leaf he turned,
And danced and rustled. And it seemed he came
From Camelot; from his belovéd dame,
Morgane le Fay. He on his shoulder bore
A mighty blade, wrought strangely o'er and o'er
With mystic runes, drawn from a scabbard which