XXXVII
Sir Paramens is sick to death!
The staring eyen, the haggard face!
God grant to him the Beauteous Breath!
God send the Goodly Gift of Grace!
There is a white cave by the sea
Wherein the knight is hid away.
Just ere the night falls, spieth he
The sun’s last shaft flicker astray.
All day is dark. There, there he mourns
His wasted years, his purpose faint.
A million whips, a million scorns
Make the knight flinch, and stain the saint.
For now! what hath he left? He feeds
On limpets and wild roots. What odds?
There is no need a mortal needs
Who hath loosed man’s hope to grasp at God's!
How his head swims! At night what stirs
Above the faint wash of the tide,
And rare sea-birds whose winging whirrs
About the cliffs? Now good betide!