These tales of old disguisings, are they
Strange myths of souls that found themselves
Unwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue,
Some soul from all the rest who'd not
The star-span acres of a former
Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,
Or carnate with his elder brothers
Ere ballad-makers lisped of Camelot?
Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,
Old painters color-blind come back once more,
Old poets skill-less in the wind-heart runes,
Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore:
All they that with strange sadness in their
Ponder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse?
