Sir Palamedes

86 XXXIII Sir PALAMEDE the Saracen Hath passed unto the tideless sea, That the keen whisper of the wind May bring him that which never men Knew—on the quest, the quest, rides he! So long to seek, so far to find ! So weary was the knight, his limbs Were slack as new-slain dove’s; his knees No longer gripped the charger rude. Listless, he aches ; his purpose swims Exhausted in the oily seas Of laxity and lassitude. The soul subsides; its serious motion Still throbs ; by habit, not by will. And all his lust to win the quest Is but a passive-mild devotion. (Ay! soon the blood shall run right chill —And is not death the Lord of Rest ?) There as he basks upon the cliff He yearns toward the Beast ; his eyes Are moist with love; his lips are fain