Up the sweep of the bridge we dashed together, It rocked to the crash of the meeting spears; Down rained the buds of the dear spring weather, The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.
There, as we rolled and writhed together, I threw my arms above my head, For close by my side, in the lovely weather, I saw him reel and fall back dead.
I and the slayer met together, He waited the death-stroke there in his place, With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather Gapingly mazed at my maddened face.
Madly I fought as we fought together; In vain: the little Christian band The pagans drowned, as in stormy weather The river drowns low-lying land.
They bound my blood-stained hands together, They bound his corpse to nod by my side: Then on we rode, in the bright March weather, With clash of cymbals did we ride.
We ride no more, no more together; My prison-bars are thick and strong, I take no heed of any weather, The sweet Saints grant I live not long.
William Morris.