IN samite sark yclad was she;
And that fair glimmerish band of gold
Which crowned long, savage locks of hair
In the moon brent cold.
She with big eyeballs gloomed and glowered,
And lightly hummied some Elfin's song,
And one could naught save on her stare
And fare along.
Yea; sad and lute-like was that song
And softly said its mystery;
Which quaintly sang in elden verse
" Thy love I'll be."
And oft it said: " I love thee true,
Sir Ewain, champion of the fair."
And never wist he what a witch
Was that one there.