THE WILD KNIGHT

The wasting thistle whitens on my crest,

The barren grasses blow upon my spear,

A green, pale pennon: blazon of wild faith

And love of fruitless things: yea, of my love,

Among the golden loves of all the knights,

Alone: most hopeless, sweet, and blasphemous,

The love of God:

I hear the crumbling creeds

Like cliffs washed down by water, change, and pass;

I hear a noise of words, age after age,

A new cold wind that blows across the plains,

And all the shrines stand empty; and to me

All these are nothing: priests and schools may doubt

Who never have believed; but I have loved.

Ah friends, I know it passing well, the love

Wherewith I love; it shall not bring to me

Return or hire or any pleasant thing —

Ay, I have tried it: Ay, I know its roots.

Earthquake and plague have burst on it in vain

And rolled back shattered —

Babbling neophytes!

Blind, startled fools — think you I know it not?

Think you to teach me? Know I not His ways?

Strange-visaged blunders, mystic cruelties.

All! all! I know Him, for I love Him. Go!

So, with the wan waste grasses on my spear,

I ride for ever, seeking after God.

My hair grows whiter than my thistle plume,

And all my limbs are loose; but in my eyes

The star of an unconquerable praise:

For in my soul one hope for ever sings,

That at the next white corner of a road

My eyes may look on Him....

Hush — I shall know

The place when it is found: a twisted path

Under a twisted pear-tree — this I saw

In the first dream I had ere I was born,

Wherein He spoke....

But the grey clouds come down

In hail upon the icy plains: I ride,

Burning for ever in consuming fire.