XXII
Sir PaLaMebE his wits doth rally,
Nursing his wound beside a lake
Within an admirable valley,
Whose walls their thirst on heaven slake,
And in the moonlight mystical
Their countless spears of silver shake.
Thus reasons he: “ In each and all
Fyttes of this quest the quarry’s track
Is wondrous geometrical.
In spire and whorl twists out and back
The hart with fair symmetric line.
And lo! the grain of wit I lack—
This Beast is Master of Design.
So studying each twisted print
In this mirific mind of mine,
My heart may happen on a hint.”
Thus as the seeker after gold
Eagerly chases grain or glint,
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