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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 steel,

The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,

The horse and rider reel

Sometime on lonely mountain-meres

I find a magic bark;

I leap aboard: no helmsman steers:

I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the Grail:

With folded feet, in stoles of white,

On sleeping wings they sail.

The tempest crackles on the leads,

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 the windy fields.