280
THE WANDERERS
There at his gate he stood, the little knight,
For any maid a champion bold and fair,
In benediction lay a shaft of light
Upon his golden helm of silken hair.
He looked into the world, nor feared the shade,
High were his hopes of battles yet to be;
With his brave eyes he sought them unafraid
And for his watchword hath he purity.
The victor's laurels and the poet's crown,
The singer's lute, the soldier's sword, all won,
All that the world could hold of high renown.
As there he stood a-dreaming in the sun.
Do you remember, elder, sad and grey,
Behind his feet youth's portals clashing fell?
Worn in life's battle, broken in the fray,
Have you forgotten?—yet you knew him well.
