Fresh, fragrant, like a wild-flower of the woods,
Ready and willing to be plucked and worn,
And placed among those soiled and hothouse flowers,
You long have worn, Isolt and Gwenhwyvar!
The forest flower, innocent as yet,—
The fairest, hence the more to be desired,
The quickest, too, to wither,—whose sweet name
Is Angharad!... Ho! page! my horse! my mail!—
God's wounds! my horse! my arms!—I will away!"
And many knights he passed, nor saw; who asked