Before the vision of his love, Leorre,
Her tender eyes aglow with changeless light,
The golden splendour of her sunny hair,
Her winning smiles of grace and sweetness blent,
There came the waving, waving of the plume;
Between his sorrow and his weary soul,
Between his trouble and his clear-eyed self,
There came the waving, waving of the plume;
Until he felt, in some half-conscious way,
It was his heart, and he a stranger there
That looked down, from a height, indifferent
Upon it at the mercy of the wind.

Sudden, with that long lingering trace of youth
That gave to him the fascinating charm
Which other men were fain to emulate,
He quickly stooped, and tore it from his helm,
And cast it far out on the tossing sea. 
It lighted on the waves a purple bird,
Floating with swan-like grace before the wind. 
The action quenched impatience.  Kathanal,
Impulsive, passionate and sensitive,
In moods was ever ready with response
To omen and to change of circumstance. 
He stood a moment, and then forward sprang
To catch it ere it vanished out of reach. 
It was too late—­the outward-flowing tide
Bore it from wave to wave beyond his sight.

“Ah, God!” he cried aloud, “what have I done? 
It is the omen of a curse to me;
My crest is gone, my knightly symbol lost,
My helm dishonoured through an act of mine.”

Then came the memory of early youth,
The recollection of a high resolve
To keep his manhood free from touch of stain,
To be a knight like Galahad, pure and true. 
So few short years had passed since that resolve,
And yet he had forgotten loyalty
And truth and honour for the fair Leorre,
The wife of Reginault, his patron knight,—­
The brave old man who treated him as son. 
Long had he loved her with a knightly love,
And fought for her, and chosen her the queen
Of many a tournament.  She still was young,
Fairer than morning in the early spring. 
When she had come, a gladsome bride, to grace
The castle of old Reginault, and warm
His grand old spirit into youth again,
Sir Kathanal had bowed before her, saying,
“My gracious lady, take me as your knight”;
And she had answered, with her winning smile,
“You are Sir Reginault’s, and therefore mine.”

Well had he loved her from that very hour,
Giving her honour as his old friend’s bride,
Making the castle ring with merriment
To do her service, and fulfil the best
Of Reginault, who bade him use his grace
To make her life a round of holidays. 
But day by day his selfish love had grown
From friendly service to a lover’s claim,
Until he had forgotten Reginault
In her fair eyes, and all things else but her,
Who granted him no boon, no smallest act
Of love or tenderness.

At last the strife
Between deep yearning for some touch of love,
And brave endeavour for self-mastery,
Had driven him to madness and despair. 
To the lone sea he brought his agony
To face it boldly, and his spirit, quick
To wear new moods, caught a despondent gloom
From the dark omen that oppressed his soul.