Of such was I, Isolt! till, lo, Your face on mine did gleam, And changed that world, I used to know, Into an evil dream. That world wherein, on hill and plain, Great blood-red poppies bloomed; Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain, And sleepily perfumed. Above, below, on every part, A crimson shadow lay; As if the red sun streamed athwart, And sunset was alway. I know not how; I know not when; I only know that there She met me in the haunted glen, A poppy in her hair. Her face seemed fair as Mary's is, That knows nor sin nor wrong; Her presence filled the silences As music fills a song. And she was clad like the Mother of God, As 'twere for Christ's sweet sake; But when she moved and where she trod A hiss went of a snake. Though seeming sinless, till I die I shall not know for sure Why to my soul she seemed a lie And otherwise than pure. Nor why I kissed her soon and late, And for her felt desire, While loathing of her passion ate Into my heart like fire. Was it because my soul could tell That, like the poppy-flower, She had no soul? a thing of Hell, That o'er mine had no power. Or was it that your love at last, My soul so long had craved, From that sweet sin which held me fast At that last moment, saved? THE KNIGHT-ERRANT The witch-elm shivers in the gale; The thorn-tree's top is bowed: The night is black with rain and hail, And mist and cloud. The winds, upon the woods and fields, Are swords two fiends unsheathe, Two fiends, that snarl behind their shields And grind their teeth. The foxfire, in the marshy place, As he rides on and on, Gleams, ghastly as a deadman's face, And then is gone. The owl shrieks from the splintered pine Demonic ridicule: He hears the werewolf howl and whine And lap the pool. Black bats beat blindly by his eyes, Like Death's own horrible hands: His quest leads under haunted skies To haunted lands. He rides with fire upon his casque, And fire upon his spear, The roadway of his soul's set task, Without a fear. Right steels the sinews of his steed, And tempers his straight sword: He rides the causeway of his creed Without a word. No man shall make the iron pause In gauntlet and in thew: He rides the highway of his cause To die or do. His purpose leads him, like a flame, Through forest and through fen, To castle walls of wrong and shame And blood-stained men. Hope's are the lips that wind the horn Before the gates of lust: Though fifty dragons hiss him scorn, Still will he trust. Strength's is the hand that thunders at The entrances of night: Though ten-score demons crush him flat Still will he fight.