https://sonett.fontane-place.de/ Sat, 27 Jun 2026 07:43:04 +0000 MyBB https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=28699 Tue, 16 Jan 2024 09:21:38 +0100 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=28699 Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson
1875 - 1935  USA


To the Negro Farmers of the United States

God washes clean the souls and hearts of you,
His favored ones, whose backs bend o’er the soil,
Which grudging gives to them requite for toil
In sober graces and in vision true.

God places in your hands the pow’r to do
A service sweet. Your gift supreme to foil
The bare-fanged wolves of hunger in the moil
Of Life’s activities. Yet all too few

Your glorious band, clean sprung from Nature’s heart;
The hope of hungry thousands, in whose breast
Dwells fear that you should fail. God placed no dart

Of war within your hands, but pow’r to start
Tears, praise, love, joy, enwoven in a crest
To crown you glorious, brave ones of the soil.


.]]> Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson
1875 - 1935  USA


To the Negro Farmers of the United States

God washes clean the souls and hearts of you,
His favored ones, whose backs bend o’er the soil,
Which grudging gives to them requite for toil
In sober graces and in vision true.

God places in your hands the pow’r to do
A service sweet. Your gift supreme to foil
The bare-fanged wolves of hunger in the moil
Of Life’s activities. Yet all too few

Your glorious band, clean sprung from Nature’s heart;
The hope of hungry thousands, in whose breast
Dwells fear that you should fail. God placed no dart

Of war within your hands, but pow’r to start
Tears, praise, love, joy, enwoven in a crest
To crown you glorious, brave ones of the soil.


.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=28698 Tue, 16 Jan 2024 09:21:28 +0100 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=28698 Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson
1875 - 1935  USA

To Madame Curie

Oft have I thrilled at deeds of high emprise,
And yearned to venture into realms unknown,
Thrice blessed she, I deemed, whom God had shown
How to achieve great deeds in woman’s guise.

Yet what discov’ry by expectant eyes
Of foreign shores, could vision half the throne
Full gained by her, whose power fully grown
Exceeds the conquerors of th’ uncharted skies?

So would I be this woman whom the world
Avows its benefactor; nobler far,
Than Sybil, Joan, Sappho, or Egypt’s queen.

In the alembic forged her shafts and hurled
At pain, diseases, waging a humane war;
Greater than this achievement, none, I ween.


.]]> Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson
1875 - 1935  USA

To Madame Curie

Oft have I thrilled at deeds of high emprise,
And yearned to venture into realms unknown,
Thrice blessed she, I deemed, whom God had shown
How to achieve great deeds in woman’s guise.

Yet what discov’ry by expectant eyes
Of foreign shores, could vision half the throne
Full gained by her, whose power fully grown
Exceeds the conquerors of th’ uncharted skies?

So would I be this woman whom the world
Avows its benefactor; nobler far,
Than Sybil, Joan, Sappho, or Egypt’s queen.

In the alembic forged her shafts and hurled
At pain, diseases, waging a humane war;
Greater than this achievement, none, I ween.


.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=28697 Tue, 16 Jan 2024 09:21:17 +0100 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=28697 Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson
1875 - 1935  USA

I had not thought of violets late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.

The thought of violets meant florists' shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines.

So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made,—
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.

And now—unwittingly, you've made me dream
Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.


.]]> Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson
1875 - 1935  USA

I had not thought of violets late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.

The thought of violets meant florists' shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines.

So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made,—
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.

And now—unwittingly, you've made me dream
Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.


.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24850 Sun, 28 Aug 2022 09:10:23 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24850 Prafulla Ranjan Das
(1881–1963) Indien


The Quest.

I stepped into the dusty thoroughfare,
Where men with weary footsteps trod the earth,
And sought the secrets of their death and birth
In heat and passion of the noon-day air!

—In life that has been lived in black despair,
Or in the splendour of the city's worth,
Where mortals moving with no joy or mirth
Have yet aspired to do, conceive, and dare!

And one above them all cried out to me,
"Alas, alas,—I gave a life's devotion,
To drag the secrets of Eternity

From objects whirling with the earth's swift motion,
And now I think I'll wander never more,
What, if those secrets waited at my door?"





.]]> Prafulla Ranjan Das
(1881–1963) Indien


The Quest.

I stepped into the dusty thoroughfare,
Where men with weary footsteps trod the earth,
And sought the secrets of their death and birth
In heat and passion of the noon-day air!

—In life that has been lived in black despair,
Or in the splendour of the city's worth,
Where mortals moving with no joy or mirth
Have yet aspired to do, conceive, and dare!

And one above them all cried out to me,
"Alas, alas,—I gave a life's devotion,
To drag the secrets of Eternity

From objects whirling with the earth's swift motion,
And now I think I'll wander never more,
What, if those secrets waited at my door?"





.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24849 Sun, 28 Aug 2022 09:07:06 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24849 Rabindranath Datta
Roby Datta
(1883–1918) Indien


Sir Asutosh Mookerjee.

He rose, a meteor, in the midst of men
To awe the world with splendour: many a star,
That might in other skies have shone afar,
Beside him paled, and swam not into ken.

His lore with glory fill'd the quarters then,
And won him such a name as nought could mar:
He fought, and gain'd success without a scar,
A valiant knight, whose weapon was his pen.

Good-temper'd, even-minded, patient, wise,
He lent his aid wherever he could meet
A man of promise that deserved to rise:

In dealing justice fairly, none could beat
His breadth of view, and none the solemn guise
In which all fine distinctions he would greet.




.]]> Rabindranath Datta
Roby Datta
(1883–1918) Indien


Sir Asutosh Mookerjee.

He rose, a meteor, in the midst of men
To awe the world with splendour: many a star,
That might in other skies have shone afar,
Beside him paled, and swam not into ken.

His lore with glory fill'd the quarters then,
And won him such a name as nought could mar:
He fought, and gain'd success without a scar,
A valiant knight, whose weapon was his pen.

Good-temper'd, even-minded, patient, wise,
He lent his aid wherever he could meet
A man of promise that deserved to rise:

In dealing justice fairly, none could beat
His breadth of view, and none the solemn guise
In which all fine distinctions he would greet.




.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24848 Sun, 28 Aug 2022 09:05:22 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24848 Greece Chunder Dutt
(1833–1892) Indien


The Hills.

How sweet 'twere here an anchorite to dwell,
⁠Here in the presence of this white cascade!
⁠To muse at noon beneath this grateful shade,
With bead and crucifix to haunt this cell;

Fresh wholesome fruits to gather in the dell,
⁠At early morn what time broad lights invade
⁠The dew-gemmed coverts of the peaceful glade,
And listening silence broods o'er rock and fell;

With solemn cheer to mark at eve on high
⁠The stars leap forth, to lie on this smooth stone
Strewed with crisp leaves, and hear the owlet's cry

⁠Borne on the breeze from crag and cavern lone,
Or close in balmy sleep the languid eye,
⁠Lulled by the deep-voiced Teesta's soothing tone.



.]]> Greece Chunder Dutt
(1833–1892) Indien


The Hills.

How sweet 'twere here an anchorite to dwell,
⁠Here in the presence of this white cascade!
⁠To muse at noon beneath this grateful shade,
With bead and crucifix to haunt this cell;

Fresh wholesome fruits to gather in the dell,
⁠At early morn what time broad lights invade
⁠The dew-gemmed coverts of the peaceful glade,
And listening silence broods o'er rock and fell;

With solemn cheer to mark at eve on high
⁠The stars leap forth, to lie on this smooth stone
Strewed with crisp leaves, and hear the owlet's cry

⁠Borne on the breeze from crag and cavern lone,
Or close in balmy sleep the languid eye,
⁠Lulled by the deep-voiced Teesta's soothing tone.



.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24847 Sun, 28 Aug 2022 09:04:17 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24847 Michael Madhusudan Dutt
(1824–1873) Indien


Sonnets.

I.

I am not rich, nay, nor the future heir
To sparkling gold or silver heaped on store;
There is no marble blushing on my floor
With thousand varied dies:—no gilded chair,

No cushions, carpets that by riches are
Brought from the Persian land, or Turkish shore;
There is no menial waiting at my door
Attentive to the knell: and all things rare,

Born in remotest regions, that shine in
And grace the rich-man's hall, are wanting here.
These are not things that by blind Fate have been

Allotted ever to the poor man's share:
These are not things, these eyes have ever seen,
Tho' their proud names have sounded in this ear!



II.

But oh! I grieve not;—for the azure sky
With all its host of stars that brightly shine,
The green-robed earth with all her flow'rs divine,
The verdant vales and every mountain high,

Those beauteous meads that now do glittering lie
Clad in bright sun-shine,—all, oh! all are mine!
And much there is on which my ear and eye
Can feast luxurious!—why should I repine?

The furious Gale that howls and fiercely blows,
The gentler Breeze that sings with tranquil glee,
The silver Rill that gayly warbling flows,

And e'en the dark and ever-lasting Sea,
All, all these bring oblivion for my woes,
And all these have transcendent charms for me!



.]]> Michael Madhusudan Dutt
(1824–1873) Indien


Sonnets.

I.

I am not rich, nay, nor the future heir
To sparkling gold or silver heaped on store;
There is no marble blushing on my floor
With thousand varied dies:—no gilded chair,

No cushions, carpets that by riches are
Brought from the Persian land, or Turkish shore;
There is no menial waiting at my door
Attentive to the knell: and all things rare,

Born in remotest regions, that shine in
And grace the rich-man's hall, are wanting here.
These are not things that by blind Fate have been

Allotted ever to the poor man's share:
These are not things, these eyes have ever seen,
Tho' their proud names have sounded in this ear!



II.

But oh! I grieve not;—for the azure sky
With all its host of stars that brightly shine,
The green-robed earth with all her flow'rs divine,
The verdant vales and every mountain high,

Those beauteous meads that now do glittering lie
Clad in bright sun-shine,—all, oh! all are mine!
And much there is on which my ear and eye
Can feast luxurious!—why should I repine?

The furious Gale that howls and fiercely blows,
The gentler Breeze that sings with tranquil glee,
The silver Rill that gayly warbling flows,

And e'en the dark and ever-lasting Sea,
All, all these bring oblivion for my woes,
And all these have transcendent charms for me!



.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24846 Sun, 28 Aug 2022 09:02:34 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24846 Hur Chunder Dutt
(1831–1901) Indien


INDIA.

O yes! I love thee with a boundless love,
Land of my birth; and while I lisp thy name,
Burns in my soul 'an Aetna of pure flame'
Which none can quench nor aught on earth remove.

Back from the shrouded past, as with a spell,
Thy days of glory memory recalls,
And castles rise, and towers, and flanking walls,
And soldiers live, for thee dear land who fell;

But as from dreams of bliss men wake to mourn,
So mourn I when that vision is no more,
And in poor lays thy widowed fate deplore,

Thy trophies gone, thy beauteous laurels torn,
But Time shall yet be mocked;—though these decay,
I see broad streaks of a still brighter day.


.]]> Hur Chunder Dutt
(1831–1901) Indien


INDIA.

O yes! I love thee with a boundless love,
Land of my birth; and while I lisp thy name,
Burns in my soul 'an Aetna of pure flame'
Which none can quench nor aught on earth remove.

Back from the shrouded past, as with a spell,
Thy days of glory memory recalls,
And castles rise, and towers, and flanking walls,
And soldiers live, for thee dear land who fell;

But as from dreams of bliss men wake to mourn,
So mourn I when that vision is no more,
And in poor lays thy widowed fate deplore,

Thy trophies gone, thy beauteous laurels torn,
But Time shall yet be mocked;—though these decay,
I see broad streaks of a still brighter day.


.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24845 Sun, 28 Aug 2022 08:59:27 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24845 Omesh Chunder Dutt
1836–1912 Indien

Sonnets—War.

I

How terrible art thou O iron War!
⁠With vengeful furies in thy long-drawn train,
⁠Thy step is found e'en o'er the trackless main,
Nor rock, nor sea thy fiery course can bar.

Where'er thou goest in thy rattling car,
⁠Deserted hamlet and ensanguin'd plain,
⁠Attest thy cruel and tyrannic reign,
And flaming towns gleam lurid from afar.

Thy blood-red standard to the winds display'd,
⁠Thy drum's deep roll, thy trumpets shrill and clear,
The thunder of the furious cannonade,

⁠Are sights and sounds which fill the heart with fear;
For they presage, alas! too well we know.
Rapine and wreck, untimely death and woe.


II.

But yesterday upon this ravaged spot,
⁠Rose the proud city lifting high in air
⁠Its graceful arches and its columns fair,
Here was the mart with life and tumult fraught;

O cruel War, what ruin hast thou wrought!
⁠Outrage and wrong are rampant everywhere:
⁠Hark to those shrieks, wild cry, and hopeless prayer,
Bursting alike from hall and lowly cot!

Is this the glory, this the deathless fame,
⁠Which thou dost promise to thy lawless crew!
Shall we for this emblazon forth thy name,

⁠Shall we for this thy path with flowerets strew!
⁠Away,—tho' proud thy brow, and dark its frown,
It is not worthy of the victor's crown.



.]]> Omesh Chunder Dutt
1836–1912 Indien

Sonnets—War.

I

How terrible art thou O iron War!
⁠With vengeful furies in thy long-drawn train,
⁠Thy step is found e'en o'er the trackless main,
Nor rock, nor sea thy fiery course can bar.

Where'er thou goest in thy rattling car,
⁠Deserted hamlet and ensanguin'd plain,
⁠Attest thy cruel and tyrannic reign,
And flaming towns gleam lurid from afar.

Thy blood-red standard to the winds display'd,
⁠Thy drum's deep roll, thy trumpets shrill and clear,
The thunder of the furious cannonade,

⁠Are sights and sounds which fill the heart with fear;
For they presage, alas! too well we know.
Rapine and wreck, untimely death and woe.


II.

But yesterday upon this ravaged spot,
⁠Rose the proud city lifting high in air
⁠Its graceful arches and its columns fair,
Here was the mart with life and tumult fraught;

O cruel War, what ruin hast thou wrought!
⁠Outrage and wrong are rampant everywhere:
⁠Hark to those shrieks, wild cry, and hopeless prayer,
Bursting alike from hall and lowly cot!

Is this the glory, this the deathless fame,
⁠Which thou dost promise to thy lawless crew!
Shall we for this emblazon forth thy name,

⁠Shall we for this thy path with flowerets strew!
⁠Away,—tho' proud thy brow, and dark its frown,
It is not worthy of the victor's crown.



.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24844 Sun, 28 Aug 2022 08:57:54 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=24844 Toru Dutt
1856  - 1877 Indien

A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound

Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o’er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red, – red, and startling like a trumpet’s sound.

But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes

Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.




.]]> Toru Dutt
1856  - 1877 Indien

A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound

Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o’er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red, – red, and startling like a trumpet’s sound.

But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes

Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.




.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=20340 Wed, 02 May 2012 20:17:01 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=20340

Avatar

MINE is the beauty of all bygone years;
I hold within triumphant arms to-day
The loveliness of ages passed away,
Brynhild's, Ysolt's, Gudrun's, and Guinevere's
And hers for whom avenging Argive spears
Smote Trojan heroes in that ancient fray,
And fierce Achilles did great Hector slay,
While sad Andromache wept widow's tears.

Nature is not so rich that she can waste
The wonders of her working wantonly;
Blanaid the Fair, and Rosalie the Chaste,
And burning Sappho, Queen of Melody,
Are born again, and all their charms embraced
In one fair woman who was born for me!]]>

Avatar

MINE is the beauty of all bygone years;
I hold within triumphant arms to-day
The loveliness of ages passed away,
Brynhild's, Ysolt's, Gudrun's, and Guinevere's
And hers for whom avenging Argive spears
Smote Trojan heroes in that ancient fray,
And fierce Achilles did great Hector slay,
While sad Andromache wept widow's tears.

Nature is not so rich that she can waste
The wonders of her working wantonly;
Blanaid the Fair, and Rosalie the Chaste,
And burning Sappho, Queen of Melody,
Are born again, and all their charms embraced
In one fair woman who was born for me!]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=20339 Wed, 02 May 2012 20:06:39 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=20339

The Gleaner

METHOUGHT I came unto a world-wide plain
Where souls stood thick as grain at harvest-tide,
And many reapers, full of pious pride,
With rapid scythe-sweeps mowed them down amain;
And zealous binders bound them up like grain
In sheaves: the reapers at each onward stride
Trod many souls down. These the binders eyed
With careless looks or glances of disdain.
But, following slow, a patient Gleaner came
And gathered all the Binders cast aside,
And made fair sheaves thereof. Whereat I cried:
"Why gather these? Who art thou? Name thy name!"
The Gleaner in a sad, sweet voice replied:
"The outcasts' Saviour - for these, too, I died."]]>

The Gleaner

METHOUGHT I came unto a world-wide plain
Where souls stood thick as grain at harvest-tide,
And many reapers, full of pious pride,
With rapid scythe-sweeps mowed them down amain;
And zealous binders bound them up like grain
In sheaves: the reapers at each onward stride
Trod many souls down. These the binders eyed
With careless looks or glances of disdain.
But, following slow, a patient Gleaner came
And gathered all the Binders cast aside,
And made fair sheaves thereof. Whereat I cried:
"Why gather these? Who art thou? Name thy name!"
The Gleaner in a sad, sweet voice replied:
"The outcasts' Saviour - for these, too, I died."]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=20338 Wed, 02 May 2012 14:52:15 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=20338


Questions

SOUL, dost thou shudder at the narrow tomb?
Heart, dost thou dread to moulder in the dust -
To meet the fate that all things mortal must,
Strength in its pride, and beauty in its bloom?
What have ye done to merit nobler doom?
How used one life that ye for more should lust?
Time in his course doth all things downward thrust:
The unborn generations wait for room!
Blind we were born, blind die: yet we must still
What if God, giving us our wish and will,
Said, "Judge thyself" to each! Who dares reply?
He knows the end who made the perfect plan -
Hell were too small if man were judged by man.]]>


Questions

SOUL, dost thou shudder at the narrow tomb?
Heart, dost thou dread to moulder in the dust -
To meet the fate that all things mortal must,
Strength in its pride, and beauty in its bloom?
What have ye done to merit nobler doom?
How used one life that ye for more should lust?
Time in his course doth all things downward thrust:
The unborn generations wait for room!
Blind we were born, blind die: yet we must still
What if God, giving us our wish and will,
Said, "Judge thyself" to each! Who dares reply?
He knows the end who made the perfect plan -
Hell were too small if man were judged by man.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=20337 Wed, 02 May 2012 10:28:24 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=20337

O DAY, the crown and crest of all the year!
Thou comest not to us amid the snows,
But midmost of the reign of the red rose;
Our hearts have not yet lost the ancient cheer
That filled our fathers' simple hearts when sere
The leaves fell, and the winds of Winter froze
The waters wan, and carols at the close
Of yester-eve sang the Child Christ anear.
And so we hail thee with a greeting high,
And drain to thee a draught of our own wine,
Forgetful not beneath this bluer sky
Of that old mother-land beyond the brine,
Whose gray skies gladden as thou drawest nigh,
O day of God's good-will the seal and sign!]]>

O DAY, the crown and crest of all the year!
Thou comest not to us amid the snows,
But midmost of the reign of the red rose;
Our hearts have not yet lost the ancient cheer
That filled our fathers' simple hearts when sere
The leaves fell, and the winds of Winter froze
The waters wan, and carols at the close
Of yester-eve sang the Child Christ anear.
And so we hail thee with a greeting high,
And drain to thee a draught of our own wine,
Forgetful not beneath this bluer sky
Of that old mother-land beyond the brine,
Whose gray skies gladden as thou drawest nigh,
O day of God's good-will the seal and sign!]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17395 Sun, 28 Oct 2007 08:41:24 +0100 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17395
BEHIND thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack,
Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro,
Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe,
And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back,
Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack !
To make Wiseacredom, both high and low,
Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go)
Dispatch its Dogberrys upon thy track :
Alas ! poor Knight ! Alas ! poor soul possest !
Yet would to-day, when Courtesy grows chill,
And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest,
Some fire of thine might burn within us still !
Ah, would but one might lay his lance in rest,
And charge in earnest were it but a mill !]]>
BEHIND thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack,
Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro,
Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe,
And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back,
Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack !
To make Wiseacredom, both high and low,
Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go)
Dispatch its Dogberrys upon thy track :
Alas ! poor Knight ! Alas ! poor soul possest !
Yet would to-day, when Courtesy grows chill,
And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest,
Some fire of thine might burn within us still !
Ah, would but one might lay his lance in rest,
And charge in earnest were it but a mill !]]>