Best Famous Galahad Poems

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• All Famous Galahad Poems

Written by Robert William Service | My Son I must not let my boy Dick down, Knight of the air. With wings of light he won renown Then crashed somewhere. To fly to France from London town I do not dare. Oh he was such a simple lad Who loved the sky; A modern day Sir Galahad, No need to die: Earthbound he might have been so glad, Yet chose to fly. I ask from where his courage stemmed? I've never flown; Air-travel I have oft condemned,-- Now I'm alone, Yet somehow hold the bright belief God gave his brief. So now I must live up to him Who won on high A lustre time will never dim; Though coward I, Let me revere till life be done My hero son.

Written by Vachel Lindsay | Galahad Knight Who Perished A POEM DEDICATED TO ALL CRUSADERS AGAINST THE INTERNATIONAL AND INTERSTATE TRAFFIC IN YOUNG GIRLS Galahad . . . soldier that perished . . . ages ago, Our hearts are breaking with shame, our tears overflow. Galahad . . . knight who perished . . . awaken again, Teach us to fight for immaculate ways among men. Soldiers fantastic, we pray to the star of the sea, We pray to the mother of God that the bound may be free. Rose-crowned lady from heaven, give us thy grace, Help us the intricate, desperate battle to face Till the leer of the trader is seen nevermore in the land, Till we bring every maid of the age to one sheltering hand. Ah, they are priceless, the pale and the ivory and red! Breathless we gaze on the curls of each glorious head! Arm them with strength mediaeval, thy marvellous dower, Blast now their tempters, shelter their steps with thy power. Leave not life's fairest to perish —strangers to thee, Let not the weakest be shipwrecked, oh, star of the sea!

Written by Robert Graves | Babylon The child alone a poet is: Spring and Fairyland are his. Truth and Reason show but dim, And all’s poetry with him. Rhyme and music flow in plenty For the lad of one-and-twenty, But Spring for him is no more now Than daisies to a munching cow; Just a cheery pleasant season, Daisy buds to live at ease on. He’s forgotten how he smiled And shrieked at snowdrops when a child, Or wept one evening secretly For April’s glorious misery. Wisdom made him old and wary Banishing the Lords of Faery. Wisdom made a breach and battered Babylon to bits: she scattered To the hedges and ditches All our nursery gnomes and witches. Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves, Drag their treasures from the shelves. Jack the Giant-killer’s gone, Mother Goose and Oberon, Bluebeard and King Solomon. Robin, and Red Riding Hood Take together to the wood, And Sir Galahad lies hid In a cave with Captain Kidd. None of all the magic hosts, None remain but a few ghosts Of timorous heart, to linger on Weeping for lost Babylon.

Written by William Morris | Sir Galahad a Christmas Mystery It is the longest night in all the year, Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born; Six hours ago I came and sat down here, And ponder'd sadly, wearied and forlorn. The winter wind that pass'd the chapel door, Sang out a moody tune, that went right well With mine own thoughts: I look'd down on the floor, Between my feet, until I heard a bell Sound a long way off through the forest deep, And toll on steadily; a drowsiness Came on me, so that I fell half asleep, As I sat there not moving: less and less I saw the melted snow that hung in beads Upon my steel-shoes; less and less I saw Between the tiles the bunches of small weeds: Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground, I thought: O Galahad! the days go by, Stop and cast up now that which you have found, So sorely you have wrought and painfully. Night after night your horse treads down alone The sere damp fern, night after night you sit Holding the bridle like a man of stone, Dismal, unfriended: what thing comes of it? And what if Palomydes also ride, And over many a mountain and bare heath Follow the questing beast with none beside? Is he not able still to hold his breath With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow pale With weary striving, to seem best of all To her, "as she is best," he saith? to fail Is nothing to him, he can never fall. For unto such a man love-sorrow is So dear a thing unto his constant heart, That even if he never win one kiss, Or touch from Iseult, it will never part. And he will never know her to be worse Than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is: Good knight, and faithful, you have 'scaped the curse In wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss. Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out, Can he not think of Guenevere's arms, round Warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout Till all the place grows joyful with the sound? And when he lists can often see her face, And think, "Next month I kiss you, or next week, And still you think of me": therefore the place Grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek. But me, who ride alone, some carle shall find Dead in my arms in the half-melted snow, When all unkindly with the shifting wind, The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know Indeed that they will say: "This Galahad If he had lived had been a right good knight; Ah! poor chaste body!" but they will be glad, Not most alone, but all, when in their sight That very evening in their scarlet sleeves The gay-dress'd minstrels sing; no maid will talk Of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves, Grown big upon the bushes of the walk, East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hard To see the minster therefrom: well-a-day! Before the trees by autumn were well bared, I saw a damozel with gentle play, Within that very walk say last farewell To her dear knight, just riding out to find (Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal, And their last kisses sunk into my mind, Yea, for she stood lean'd forward on his breast, Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand, That it might well be kiss'd, she held and press'd Against his lips; long time they stood there, fann'd By gentle gusts of quiet frosty wind, Till Mador de la porte a-going by, And my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwined, And parted like a dream. In this way I, With sleepy face bent to the chapel floor, Kept musing half asleep, till suddenly A sharp bell rang from close beside the door, And I leapt up when something pass'd me by, Shrill ringing going with it, still half blind I stagger'd after, a great sense of awe At every step kept gathering on my mind, Thereat I have no marvel, for I saw One sitting on the altar as a throne, Whose face no man could say he did not know, And though the bell still rang, he sat alone, With raiment half blood-red, half white as snow. Right so I fell upon the floor and knelt, Not as one kneels in church when mass is said, But in a heap, quite nerveless, for I felt The first time what a thing was perfect dread. But mightily the gentle voice came down: "Rise up, and look and listen, Galahad, Good knight of God, for you will see no frown Upon my face; I come to make you glad. "For that you say that you are all alone, I will be with you always, and fear not You are uncared for, though no maiden moan Above your empty tomb; for Launcelot, "He in good time shall be my servant too, Meantime, take note whose sword first made him knight, And who has loved him alway, yea, and who Still trusts him alway, though in all men's sight, "He is just what you know, O Galahad, This love is happy even as you say, But would you for a little time be glad, To make ME sorry long, day after day? "Her warm arms round his neck half throttle ME, The hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead, Yea, and the years pass quick: right dismally Will Launcelot at one time hang his head; "Yea, old and shrivell'd he shall win my love. Poor Palomydes fretting out his soul! Not always is he able, son, to move His love, and do it honour: needs must roll "The proudest destrier sometimes in the dust, And then 'tis weary work; he strives beside Seem better than he is, so that his trust Is always on what chances may betide; "And so he wears away, my servant, too, When all these things are gone, and wretchedly He sits and longs to moan for Iseult, who Is no care now to Palomydes: see, "O good son, Galahad, upon this day, Now even, all these things are on your side, But these you fight not for; look up, I say, And see how I can love you, for no pride "Closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down. See now you have ME always; following That holy vision, Galahad, go on, Until at last you come to ME to sing "In Heaven always, and to walk around The garden where I am." He ceased, my face And wretched body fell upon the ground; And when I look'd again, the holy place Was empty; but right so the bell again Came to the chapel-door, there entered Two angels first, in white, without a stain, And scarlet wings, then, after them, a bed Four ladies bore, and set it down beneath The very altar-step, and while for fear I scarcely dared to move or draw my breath, Those holy ladies gently came a-near, And quite unarm'd me, saying: "Galahad, Rest here awhile and sleep, and take no thought Of any other thing than being glad; Hither the Sangreal will be shortly brought, "Yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here." Right so they went away, and I, being weary, Slept long and dream'd of Heaven: the bell comes near, I doubt it grows to morning. Miserere! [Enter Two Angels in white, with scarlet wings; also, Four Ladies in gowns of red and green; also an Angel, bearing in his hands a surcoat of white, with a red cross.] AN ANGEL O servant of the high God, Galahad! Rise and be arm'd: the Sangreal is gone forth Through the great forest, and you must be had Unto the sea that lieth on the north: There shall you find the wondrous ship wherein The spindles of King Solomon are laid, And the sword that no man draweth without sin, But if he be most pure: and there is stay'd, Hard by, Sir Launcelot, whom you will meet In some short space upon that ship: first, though, Will come here presently that lady sweet, Sister of Percival, whom you well know, And with her Bors and Percival: stand now, These ladies will to arm you. [FIRST LADY, putting on the hauberk] Galahad, That I may stand so close beneath your brow, Margaret of Antioch, am glad. [SECOND LADY, girding him with the sword.] That I may stand and touch you with my hand, O Galahad, I, Cecily, am glad. [THIRD LADY, buckling on the spurs.] That I may kneel while up above you stand, And gaze at me, O holy Galahad, I, Lucy, am most glad. [FOURTH LADY, putting on the basnet.] O gentle knight, That you bow down to us in reverence, We are most glad, I, Katherine, with delight Must needs fall trembling. [ANGEL, putting on the crossed surcoat.] Galahad, we go hence, For here, amid the straying of the snow, Come Percival's sister, Bors, and Percival. [The Four Ladies carry out the bed, and all go but Galahad.] GALAHAD. How still and quiet everything seems now: They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall. [Enter Sir Bors, Sir Percival and his Sister.] Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save! A many marvels have been here to-night; Tell me what news of Launcelot you have, And has God's body ever been in sight? SIR BORS. Why, as for seeing that same holy thing, As we were riding slowly side by side, An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing, And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide, With many-colour'd raiment, but far off; And so pass'd quickly: from the court nought good; Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoff Kept us all merry, in a little wood Was found all hack'd and dead: Sir Lionel And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest, Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well Your father Launcelot, at the king's behest Went out to seek him, but was almost slain, Perhaps is dead now; everywhere The knights come foil'd from the great quest, in vain; In vain they struggle for the vision fair.

Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | Sir Galahad MY good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall ! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light ! Three arngels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight--to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 'O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on ! the prize is near.' So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The New Knighthood Who gives him the Bath? "I," said the wet, Rank-Jungle-sweat, "I'll give him the Bath!" Who'll sing the psalms? "We," said the Palms. "Ere the hot wind becalms, "We'll sing the psalms." Who lays on the sword ? "I," said the Sun, Before he has done, "I'll lay on the sword." "Who fastens his belt? "I," said Short-Rations, " I know all the fashions "Of tightening a belt!" Who gives him his spur? "I," said his Chief, Exacting and brief, "I'll give him the spur." Who'll shake his hand? "I," said the Fever, "And I'm no deceiver, "I'll shake his hand." Who brings him the wine? "I," said Quinine, "It's a habit of mine. "I'11 come with his wine." Who'll put him to proof? "I," said All Earth. "Whatever he's worth, "I'll put to the proof." Who'll choose him for Knight? "I," said his Mother, "Before any other, "My very own Knight." And after this fashion, adventure to seek, Sir Galahad made--as it might be last week!

Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | The Buglers First Communion A buglar boy from barrack (it is over the hill There)—boy bugler, born, he tells me, of Irish Mother to an English sire (he Shares their best gifts surely, fall how things will), This very very day came down to us after a boon he on My late being there begged of me, overflowing Boon in my bestowing, Came, I say, this day to it—to a First Communion. Here he knelt then ín regimental red. Forth Christ from cupboard fetched, how fain I of feet To his youngster take his treat! Low-latched in leaf-light housel his too huge godhead. There! and your sweetest sendings, ah divine, By it, heavens, befall him! as a heart Christ's darling, dauntless; Tongue true, vaunt- and tauntless; Breathing bloom of a chastity in mansex fine. Frowning and forefending angel-warder Squander the hell-rook ranks sally to molest him; March, kind comrade, abreast him; Dress his days to a dexterous and starlight order. How it dóes my heart good, visiting at that bleak hill, When limber liquid youth, that to all I teach Yields tender as a pushed peach, Hies headstrong to its wellbeing of a self-wise self-will! Then though I should tread tufts of consolation Dáys áfter, só I in a sort deserve to And do serve God to serve to Just such slips of soldiery Christ's royal ration. Nothing élse is like it, no, not all so strains Us: fresh youth fretted in a bloomfall all portending That sweet's sweeter ending; Realm both Christ is heir to and thére réigns. O now well work that sealing sacred ointment! O for now charms, arms, what bans off bad And locks love ever in a lad! Let mé though see no more of him, and not disappointment Those sweet hopes quell whose least me quickenings lift, In scarlet or somewhere of some day seeing That brow and bead of being, An our day's God's own Galahad. Though this child's drift Seems by a divíne doom chánnelled, nor do I cry Disaster there; but may he not rankle and roam In backwheels though bound home?— That left to the Lord of the Eucharist, I here lie by; Recorded only, I have put my lips on pleas Would brandle adamantine heaven with ride and jar, did Prayer go disregarded: Forward-like, but however, and like favourable heaven heard these.

Written by Robert William Service | Wallflower Till midnight her needle she plied To finish her pretty pink dress; "Oh, bless you, my darling," she sighed; "I hope you will be a success." As she entered the Oddfellow's Hall With the shy thrill of maiden romance She felt like the belle of the Ball, But . . . nobody asked her to dance. Her programme was clutched in her hand; Her smile was a tiny bit wan; She listened, applauding the band, Pretending she liked to look on. Each girl had her favourite swain, She watched them retreat and advance; She waited and waited in vain, but nobody asked her to dance. Said Mother to me: "You'll agree That any young girl who wears specs, however so clever she be, Is lacking in glamour of sex." Said I: "There is one by the wall Who doesn't seem having a chance. She's ready to weep - Dash it all, I'm going to ask her to dance." I caught her just slipping away So quietly no one would know; But bravely she tried to seem gay, Though her heart might be aching with woe. Poor kid! She looked only sixteen, And she gave me a half frightened glance When I bowed as if she were a Queen, And I begged: "May I please have this dance?" She gave me her card: what a bluff! She'd written "Sir G." and "Sir G." So I cut out that Galahad stuff, And I scribbled "M.E" and "M.E."; She looked so forlorn and so frail, Submitting like one in a trance, So I acted the conquering male, And guided her into the dance. Then lo! to my joy and surprise Her waltzing I found was divine; And she took those damn specs from her eyes, And behold they were jewels a-shine; No lipstick nor rouge she had on, But no powder or paint could enhance On her cheeks the twin roses shone As I had with her dance after dance. Then all of a sudden I knew As we waltzed and reversed round the hall That all eyes were watching us two, And that she was the Belle of the Ball. The fellows came buzzing like bees, With swagger and posture and prance, But her programme was full of "M.E."s, So she couldn't afford them a dance. Said mother: "You've been a nice boy, But had a good time I suppose. You've filled that poor kid's heart with joy, From now she'll have plenty of beaus." . . . So fellows, please listen to me: Don't look at a wallflower askance; If a girl sitting lonely you see, Just bow, smile and beg for a dance.

Written by Siegfried Sassoon | The Poet as Hero You've heard me, scornful, harsh, and discontented, Mocking and loathing War: you've asked me why Of my old, silly sweetness I've repented-- My ecstasies changed to an ugly cry. You are aware that once I sought the Grail, Riding in armour bright, serene and strong; And it was told that through my infant wail There rose immortal semblances of song. But now I've said good-bye to Galahad, And am no more the knight of dreams and show: For lust and senseless hatred make me glad, And my killed friends are with me where I go. Wound for red wound I burn to smite their wrongs; And there is absolution in my songs.

Written by William Morris | The Chapel in Lyonesse SIR OZANA. All day long and every day, From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday, Within that Chapel-aisle I lay, And no man came a-near. Naked to the waist was I, And deep within my breast did lie, Though no man any blood could spy, The truncheon of a spear. No meat did ever pass my lips Those days. Alas! the sunlight slips From off the gilded parclose, dips, And night comes on apace. My arms lay back behind my head; Over my raised-up knees was spread A samite cloth of white and red; A rose lay on my face. Many a time I tried to shout; But as in dream of battle-rout, My frozen speech would not well out; I could not even weep. With inward sigh I see the sun Fade off the pillars one by one, My heart faints when the day is done, Because I cannot sleep. Sometimes strange thoughts pass through my head; Not like a tomb is this my bed, Yet oft I think that I am dead; That round my tomb is writ, "Ozana of the hardy heart, Knight of the Table Round, Pray for his soul, lords, of your part; A true knight he was found." Ah! me, I cannot fathom it. [He sleeps.] SIR GALAHAD. All day long and every day, Till his madness pass'd away, I watch'd Ozana as he lay Within the gilded screen. All my singing moved him not; As I sung my heart grew hot, With the thought of Launcelot Far away, I ween. So I went a little space From out the chapel, bathed my face In the stream that runs apace By the churchyard wall. There I pluck'd a faint wild rose, Hard by where the linden grows, Sighing over silver rows Of the lilies tall. I laid the flower across his mouth; The sparkling drops seem'd good for drouth; He smiled, turn'd round towards the south, Held up a golden tress. The light smote on it from the west; He drew the covering from his breast, Against his heart that hair he prest; Death him soon will bless. SIR BORS. I enter'd by the western door; I saw a knight's helm lying there: I raised my eyes from off the floor, And caught the gleaming of his hair. I stept full softly up to him; I laid my chin upon his head; I felt him smile; my eyes did swim, I was so glad he was not dead. I heard Ozana murmur low, "There comes no sleep nor any love." But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow: He shiver'd; I saw his pale lips move. SIR OZANA. There comes no sleep nor any love; Ah me! I shiver with delight. I am so weak I cannot move; God move me to thee, dear, to-night! Christ help! I have but little wit: My life went wrong; I see it writ, "Ozana of the hardy heart, Knight of the Table Round, Pray for his soul, lords, on your part; A good knight he was found." Now I begin to fathom it. [He dies.] SIR BORS. Galahad sits dreamily; What strange things may his eyes see, Great blue eyes fix'd full on me? On his soul, Lord, have mercy. SIR GALAHAD. Ozana, shall I pray for thee? Her cheek is laid to thine; No long time hence, also I see Thy wasted fingers twine Within the tresses of her hair That shineth gloriously, Thinly outspread in the clear air Against the jasper sea.