My good blade carves the casques of men，My tough lance thrusteth sure，My strength is as the strength of ten，Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high，The hard brands shiver on the steel，The splinter’d spearshafts crack and fly，The horse and rider reel：
They reel，they roll in clanging lists，And when the tide of combat stands，Perfume and flowers fall in showers，That lightly rain from ladies‘hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall！
To save from shame and thrall：But all my heart is drawn above，My knees are bow’d in crypt and shrine：I never felt the kiss of love，Nor maiden‘s hand in mine.
Me mightier transports move and thrill；So keep I fair thro’faith and prayerA virgin heart in work and will.
Between dark stems the forest glows，I hear a noise of hymns：
Then by some secret shrine I ride；
I hear a voice but none are there；The stalls are void，the doors are wide，The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altarcloth，The silver vessels sparkle clean，The shrill bell rings，the censer swings，And solemn chaunts resound between.
Sometimes on lonely mountainmeres I find a magic bark；I leap on board：no helmsman steers：I float till all is dark.
A gentle sound，an awful light！
Three angels bear the Holy Grail；With folded feet，in stoles of white，On sleeping wings they sail.Ah，blessed vision！blood of God！
My spirit beats her mortal bars，As down dark tides the glory slides，And starlike mingles with the stars.
When on my goodly charger borne Thro‘dreaming towns I go，The cock crows ere the Christmas morn，The streets are dumb with snow.
And，ringing，springs from brand and mail；But o’er the dark a glory spreads，And gilds the driving hail.
I leave the plain，I climb the height；No branchy thicket shelter yields；But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o‘er waste fens and windy fields.
A maiden knightto me is given Such hope，I know not fear；I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here.
Pure spaces clothed in living beams，Pure lilies of eternal peace，Whose odours haunt my dreams；And，stricken by an angel’s hand，This mortal armour that I wear，This weight and size，this heart and eyes，Are touch‘d，are turn’d to finest air.
The clouds are broken in the sky，And thro‘the mountainwallsA rolling organharmonySwells up，and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees，the copses nod，Wings flutter，voices hover clear：
“O just and faithful knight of God！
Ride on！the prize is near.”
So pass I hostel，hall，and grange；
By bridge and ford，by park and pale，Allarm’d I ride，whate‘er betide，Until I find the Holy Grail.
