The Quest of the Sancgreal.

Who seeks the Holy Grail he rides aloof.
The lure o lips and rippled hair
And clinging arms,—all love's white silken snare
He shall thrust from him for his soul's behoof;
And when Night cowers upon Comfort's roof
The leaping fire an circling wine forswear
And follow where Adventure's clarions blare
And spirit frets its fleshly warp and woof.

The salt of life shall mock with appetite
His lips denied the savour and the spice
Wherein the sons of men do take delight:
He shall enthrone his soul beyond their price,
And follow the cold twilight of the trail,
And in the end he shall not win the Grail.

Seaforth Mackenzie.