And girded with Farewell and with Godspeed He sprang upon his steed. And forth he fared along the broad bright way; And mild was the young sun, and wild the breeze, That seemed to blow to lands no eye had seen; And Pentecost had kindled all the trees To tremulous thin whispering flames of green, And given to each a sacred word to say; And wind-fine voices of the wind-borne birds Were ever woven in among their words. Soft-brooding o’er the hamlet where it lay, The circling hills stood stoled with holy white, For orchards brake to blossom in the night; And all the morning was one blown blue flower, And all the world was at its perfect hour. So fared he gladly, and his spirit yearned To do some deed fit for the deep new day. And on the broad bright way his armour burned, And showed him still, a shifting, waning star, To sight that followed far. Till, last, the fluctuant wood the flash did whelm, That flood-like rolled in light and shadow o’er his helm. IX I know not more: nor if that helm did rust In weed of some drear wilderness down-thrust, Where in the watches lone Heaven’s host beheld him lying overthrown, While God yet judged him victor, God whose laws Note not the event of battle, but the cause. I know not more: nor if the nodding prize Of lustrous laurels ere that helm did crown, While God yet judged him vanquished, God whose eyes Saw how his Demon smote his Angel down In some forgotten field and left him low. Only the perfect hour is mine to know. X O you who forth along the highway ride, Whose quest the whispering wood shall close around, Be all adventure high that may betide, And gentle all enchantments therein found! I would my song were as a trumpet-sound To nerve you and speed, and weld its notes with power To the remembrance of your perfect hour; To ring again and again, and to recall With the might of music, all: The prescience proud, the morning aspiration, But most the unuttered vow, the inward consecration! THE ENCOUNTER There’s a wood-way winding high, Roofed far up with light-green flicker, Save one midmost star of sky. Underfoot ’tis all pale brown With the dead leaves matted down One on other, thick and thicker; Soft, but springing to the tread. There a youth late met a maid Running lightly,--oh, so fleetly! “Whence art thou?” the herd-boy said. Either side her long hair swayed, Half a tress and half a braid, Coloured like the soft dead leaf. As she answered, laughing sweetly, On she ran, as flies the swallow; He could not choose but follow Though it had been to his grief.