I wander through the woodlands,
Peace to you - day's a-dying;
I tune a song
The trees among,
But oft-times comes a-crying.

I know more than Apollo;
For, oft when he lies sleeping,
I see the stars
At mortal wars,
And the rounded welkin weeping.

The morn's my constant mistress,
The lovely owl my morrow;
The flaming drake
And the night-crow make
Me music, to my sorrow.

With a heart of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander:
With a burning spear,
And a horse of air,
To the wilderness I wander.

With a knight of ghosts and shadows,
I summoned am to tourney:
Ten leagues beyond
The wide world's end:
Methinks it is no journey.