We found him in the woodlands—she and I— Dead was our Teacher of the silver tongue, Dead, whom we thought so strong he could not die, Dead, with no arrow loosed, with bow unstrung. And round the great, grey blade that all men dread There crept the waxen white convolvulus, And the keen edge, that once fell hard on us, Was blunt and notched and rusted yellow red. And he, our Master, the unconquered one, Lay in the nettles of the forest place, With dreadful open eyes and changeless face Turned upward–gazing at the noonday sun. Then we two bent above our old, dead King, Loosed hands and gave back heart and troth and ring.
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