Where is my sword? Where lie my spear, my mail?
Whose will is it to make my purpose fail?
Whence came the tangled dream, the poisoned sleep?
It bore the semblance of a peaceful life,
There was a wife and children and a house,
And tepid love and nothing to arouse
Cold dread of trouble or shrill din of strife.
As passion flows back burning into me,
The glamour ‘s cast back through the Ivory gates.
I blow my horn, the walls come down, I’m free.
I ride again, the last man on the quest
To bring the cup back to the king that waits
And heal the grievous wound that ails the West.