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Poem	I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me Some strange old lust for deeds. As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old - Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with namy a hither-coming and hence-going - Till now they send him dreams and no more deed; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of elders, Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.
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