The Sword Will Rise Again(Idylls of the Beholder)

O! By endless wonders!

O! By zealous martyrs!

Is what I see to others seen?

Have I lived with a fawns eyes?

Is this illusive belief?

For in a cove, in a center bur

The days gleam out the oculus

The enshrined sword of Excalibur;

On the high hill of stone,

On the damasked hilt,

Surrounded by the grassy furs

From out the cove was overgrown

A flushing hedge-like wreath

And the peaking blade from its scabbard

It spotless and lean

Had aloft over all things

Like a tombed star, the blade clear as a dream

This crux of Arthur by a brigand behold

Like in legend, as mystic Merlin told

By the King of Britain, to a truly stalwart soul

Can be the host that hoist Excalibur

And enamel his age with gold;

Perchance I am he,

To hold mastery of thee

But if to let temptations abut

And latch to heavens hilted leaf

Might it ruin under dismaying dole

Into engenderless silver seeds,

To escape ill intent and grief

But as I behold thus

Cannot I contemplate with cynical glut?:

Will a dynasty be born from me

If clutch this masterpiece?

May I be the alchemist to all goals?

May I exceed this earthly realm

And tower above my doubts?

Above my own burs— drowsy burs

That sing my mettle to sleep

And at every motion, coddle me till weak

I—from my bleak silence murmur

Till I shouting speak;

“Wise citizens, and blasphemed wizards,

I hold silver salvation, bore by a bronze hand,

As I master a gold head, and my will—

Will thus be stoutly marshaled!”