And what is so rare as a day in June?1
Then, if ever, come perfect days;

35 Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

40

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, grasping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul for grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
45 The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun

50

With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 55 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer 4
60 Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God so wills it;

No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

65 We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear

70 That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,

75 For other couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, —
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his luty crowing!1

80 Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now,

85

Everything is upward striving;

'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true

As for the grass to be green or skies to be blue,

'Tis the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;

90 The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe

Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.
What wonder if Sir Launfal1 now
95 Remembered the keeping of his vow?

PART FIRST 2

I.

"My golden spurs now bring to me,
And bring to me my richest mail,
For to-morrow I go over land and sea
In search of the Holy Grail;

100 Shall never a bed for me be spread,
Nor shall a pillow be under my head,
Till I begin my vow to keep;
Here on the rushes will I sleep,
And perchance there may come a vision true
105 Ere day create the world anew."

Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,
Slumber fell like a cloud on him,
And into his soul the vision flew.5

II.

The crows flapped over by twos and threes,

110 In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,

The little birds sang as if it were

The one day of summer in all the year,

And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees:

The castle alone in the landscape lay
115 Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray;

'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree,1
And never its gates might opened be,
Save to lord or lady of high degree;
Summer besieged it on every side,2

120 But the churlish stone her assaults defied;
She could not scale the chilly wall,

125

Though round it for leagues her pavilions tall
Stretched left and right,

Over the hills and out of sight;

Green and broad was every tent,
And out of each a murmur went

Till the breeze fell off at night.

III.

The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
And through the dark arch a charger sprang,

130 Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall

In his siege of three hundred summers long,
135 And binding them all in one blazing sheaf,
Had cast them forth: so, young and strong,
And lightsome as a locust leaf,
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail,
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.

IV.

140 It was morning on hill and stream and tree, And morning in the young knight's heart;

Only the castle moodily

Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,
And gloomed by itself apart;

145 The season brimmed all other things up

Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.

150

V.

As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate
He was 'ware of a leper1 crouched by the same,
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;
And a loathing over Sir Launfal came;
The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,
The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl,
And midway its leap his heart stood still
Like a frozen waterfall;

155 For this man, so foul and bent of stature,
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,-
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.

VI.

The leper raised not the gold from the dust: 160 "Better to me the poor man's crust, Better the blessing of the poor,

165

Though I turn me empty from his door;

That is no true alms which the hand can hold;
He gives nothing but worthless gold

Who gives from a sense of duty; 2

But he who gives a slender mite,3

And gives to that which is out of sight,