Where the dry leaves shake and fall,
By the hall’s ancestral trees,
Bent and writhing in the breeze,
Rode we all with one intent,
Gaily to the Tournament.
Golden sparkles, flashing gem,
Lit the robes of each of them,
Cloak of velvet, robe of silk,
Mantle snowy-white as milk,
Rings upon our bridle-hand,