Dedication

O wanderer of tattered lace,

Who laughs and sings within the flood;

Last of the nobler warrior race,

Last of the brothers of my blood,

I sing to thee the ancient hymn:

Born of wrath in the quiet hour,

Written for thee, a quiet flow'r,

A beam of light beneath the dim.

Hast thou forgot the stories great?

The heroes bold? The magic dark?

The cruel, unyielding, bleeding mark?

The ever savage whims of Fate?

I hold them still within my heart,

As dear as thy name are they to me;

And in the gloom, how like a dart

Of fire, how like the purest agony.

But fear not the high and angry cut,

It shall be borne by your trouvère;

The times have come to this, my dear-

The path is gone. The way is shut.