Lived a knight once, poor and simple,
Pale of face with glance austere,
Spare of speech, but with a spirit
Proud, intolerant of fear.
He had had a wondrous vision:
Ne'er could feeble human art
Gauge its deep, mysterious meaning,
It was graven on his heart.
And since then his soul had quivered
With an all-consuming fire,
Never more he looked on women,
Speech with them did not desire.
But he dropped his scarf thenceforward,
Wore a chaplet in its place,
And no more in sight of any
Raised the visor from his face.
Filled with purest love and fervor,
Faith which his sweet dreams did yield
In his blood he traced the letters
A.M.D. upon his shield.
When the Paladins proclaiming
Ladies' names as true love's sign
Hurled themselves into the battle
On the plains of Palestine,
Lumen coeli, Sancta Rosa!
Shouted he with flaming glance,
And the fury of his menace
Checked the Mussulman's advance.
Then returning to his castle
In far distant countryside,
Silent, sad, bereft of reason,
In his solitude he died.
Alexander Pushkin, The Poor Knight
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