 | A Sonnet Chronicle |  |
51
The Master of the Temple
February 8, 1904.
Never again from his high-lifted place,
Above the silent Templars where they lie,
Shall fall the voice whose echoes loth to die
Still linger on, whose words were words of grace.
Never again shall we behold that face
Snow-crowned and pale as though Death hovered by,
Nor watch the lightning flashes of the eye
That told how thought with merriment kept pace.
Above the silent Templars where they lie,
Shall fall the voice whose echoes loth to die
Still linger on, whose words were words of grace.
Never again shall we behold that face
Snow-crowned and pale as though Death hovered by,
Nor watch the lightning flashes of the eye
That told how thought with merriment kept pace.
But where no temple is, in that far land,
Master of knights who sought the Holy Grail
With high endeavour, courtly reverence,
He greets to-day his friends with spirit hand,
The men whose wit was wed to innocence
The souls whose fount of honour cannot fail.
Master of knights who sought the Holy Grail
With high endeavour, courtly reverence,
He greets to-day his friends with spirit hand,
The men whose wit was wed to innocence
The souls whose fount of honour cannot fail.
| A Sonnet Chronicle | |