His hair floats not upon the wind

Like theirs, but curled and closely twined;

Wrought with his aureole, so that none

Shall know the gold curls from the crown.

His wings he hath put away in steel,

He goes mail-clad from head to heel;

Never moon-silver hath outshone

His breastplate and his morion.

His brows are like a battlement,

Beautiful, brave and innocent;