Iv

No, no, thrice, Pornic, no! Perpend the authentic tale! 'T was not for every Gawain to gaze upon the Grail! But whoso went his rounds, when flew bat, flitted midge, Might hear across the dusk,--where both roads join the bridge, Hard by the little port,--creak a slow caravan, A chimneyed house on wheels; so shyly-sheathed, began To broaden out the bud which, bursting unaware, Now takes away our breath, queen-tulip of the Fair!