"My love! my witch! whose kiss, like some wild wine, Has subtly filled me with a flame divine, An aspiration, whose fierce pulses urge In all my veins, with rosy surge on surge, To hurl me in that heaven, all which is mine, Thine arms! from which I never would emerge." His ecstasy the very foliage shook; The wood seemed hushed to hear, and hushed the brook; And even the heavens, wherein one star shone clear, Seemed leaning nearer, his glad song to hear, To which its wild star throbbed, all golden-pale: And after which, deep in the purple vale, Awoke the passion of the nightingale. III As one hath seen a green-gowned huntress fair, Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair; Keen eyes as gray as rain, young limbs as lithe As the wild fawn's; and silvery voice as blithe As is the wind that breathes of flowers and dews, Breast through the bramble-tangled avenues; Through brier and thorn, that pluck her gown of green, And snag it here and there,--through which the sheen Of her white skin gleams rosy;--eyes and face, Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase: So came the Evening to that shadowy wood, Or so it seemed to Accolon, who stood Watching the sunset through the solitude. So Evening came; and shadows cowled the way Like ghostly pilgrims who kneel down to pray Before a wayside shrine: and, radiant-rolled, Along the west, the battlemented gold Of sunset walled the opal-tinted skies, That seemed to open gates of Paradise On soundless hinges of the winds, and blaze A glory, far within, of chrysoprase, Towering in topaz through the purple haze. And from the sunset, down the roseate ways, To Accolon, who, with his idle lute, Reclined in revery against the root Of a great oak, a fragment of the west, A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed, Skipped like a leaf the early frosts have burned, A red oak-leaf; and like a leaf he turned, And danced and rustled. And it seemed he came From Camelot; from his belovéd dame, Morgane le Fay. He on his shoulder bore A mighty blade, wrought strangely o'er and o'er With mystic runes, drawn from a scabbard which Glared venomous, with angry jewels rich. He, louting to the knight, "Sir knight," said he, "Your Lady, with all tenderest courtesy, Assures you--ah, unworthy bearer I Of her good message!--of her constancy." Then, doffing the great baldric, with the sword, To him he gave them, saying, "From my lord, King Arthur: even his Excalibur, The magic blade which Merlin gat of her, The Ladyé of the Lake, who, as you wot, Fostered in infanthood Sir Launcelot, Upon some isle in Briogne's tangled lands Of meres and mists; where filmy fairy bands, By lazy moons of summer, dancing, fill With rings of morrice every grassy hill.