scour’d
  His master’s armor; and of such a one
  He ask’d, “What means the tumult in the town?”
  Who told him, scouring still, “The sparrow-hawk!”
  Then riding close behind an ancient churl,
  Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam,
  Went sweating underneath a sack of corn,
  Ask’d yet once more what meant the hubbub here? 
  Who answer’d gruffly, “Ugh! the sparrow-hawk.”

    Then riding further past an armorer’s,
  Who, with back turn’d, and bow’d above his work,
  Sat riveting a helmet on his knee,
  He put the self-same query, but the man
  Not turning round, nor looking at him, said: 
  “Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk
  Has little time for idle questioners.” 
  Whereat Geraint flash’d into sudden spleen: 
  “A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk! 
  Tits, wrens, and all wing’d nothings peck him dead! 
  Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg
  The murmur of the world!  What is it to me? 
  O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,
  Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks! 
  Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad,
  Where can I get me harborage for the night? 
  And arms, arms, arms to fight the enemy?  Speak!”
  Whereat the armorer turning all amazed
  And seeing one so gay in purple silks,
  Came forward with the helmet yet in hand
  And answer’d, “Pardon me, O stranger knight;
  We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn,
  And there is scantly time for half the work. 
  Arms? truth!  I know not:  all are wanted here. 
  Harborage? truth, good truth, I know not, save,
  It may be, at Earl Yniol’s, o’er the bridge
  Yonder.”  He spoke and fell to work again.

    Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet,
  Across the bridge that spann’d the dry ravine. 
  There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl,
  (His dress a suit of fray’d magnificence,
  Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said: 
  “Whither, fair son?” to whom Geraint replied,
  “O friend, I seek a harborage for the night.” 
  Then Yniol, “Enter therefore and partake
  The slender entertainment of a house
  Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door’d.” 
  “Thanks, venerable friend,” replied Geraint;
  “So that you do not serve me sparrow-hawks
  For supper, I will enter, I will eat
  With all the passion of a twelve hours’ fast.” 
  Then sigh’d and smiled the hoary-headed Earl,
  And answer’d, “Graver cause than yours is mine
  To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk: 
  But in, go in; for save yourself desire it,
  We will not touch upon him ev’n in jest.”

    Then rode Geraint into the castle court,
  His charger trampling many a prickly star
  Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. 
  He look’d and saw that all was ruinous. 
  Here stood a shatter’d archway plumed with fern;
  And here had fall’n a great part