The wanderer

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.