His steed was old, his armor worn,
And he was old and worn and gray:
The light that lit his patient eyes
It shone from very far away.
Through gay Provence he journeyed on;
To one high quest his life was true,
And so they called him Carcamon—
The knight who seeketh the world through.
A pansy blossomed on his shield;
"A token 'tis," the people say,
"That still across the world's wide field
He seeks la dame de ses pensees."
For somewhere on a painted wall,
Or in the city's shifting crowd,
Or looking from a casement tall,
Or shaped of dream or evening cloud—
Forgotten when, forgotten where—
Her face had filled his careless eye
A moment ere he turned and passed,
Nor knew it was his destiny.
But ever in his dreams it came
Divine and passionless and strong,
A smile upon the imperial lips
No lover's kiss had dared to wrong.
He took his armor from the wall—
Ah! gone since then was many a day—
He led his steed from out the stall
And sought la dame de ses pensees.
The ladies of the Troubadours
Came riding through the chestnut grove
"Sir Minstrel, string that lute of yours
And sing us a gay song of love."
"O ladies of the Troubadours,
My lute has but a single string;
Sirventes fit for paramours,
My heart is not in tune to sing.
"The flower that blooms upon my shield
It has another soil and spring
Than that wherein the gaudy rose
Of light Provence is blossoming.
"The lady of my dreams doth hold
Such royal state within my mind,
No thought that comes unclad in gold
To that high court may entrance find."
So through the chestnut groves he passed,
And through the land and far away;
Nor know I whether in the world
He found la dame de ses pensees.
Only I know that in the South
Long to the harp his tale was told;
Sweet as new wine within the mouth
The small, choice words and music old.
To scorn the promise of the real;
To seek and seek and not to find;
Yet cherish still the fair ideal—
It is thy fate, O restless Mind!