God speed the golden-bosomed barques
that set their errant keels upon
the waves, and each wight who embarks,
to sail from Avalon.
Be calm, you seas, and sweetly pass
the bows of my love’s galleon,
while, by my silvered looking glass
I wait, in Avalon.
Mine eyes of grey, horizoning
till pennants’ argent gleam is gone
below the bourne, my voice shall sing
the lay of Avalon;
For each esquire in or and gules,
each knight in mail habergeon,
the heroes and the holy fools,
I sing in Avalon.
I bless their saintly voyaging
to dark, war-wounded Albion,
to bring the great, friend-stricken king
in peace to Avalon.
This bowl, that held First-Easter’s wine
once sipped by God’s own holy Son,
I take, and to these lips of mine
I touch, in Avalon.
This bowl, that caught the Saviour’s blood,
that questing heroes dream upon,
I place on it each crimson bud
and kiss in Avalon.
I dare this pledge – with mouth profane
the grail – till happy carillon
proclaims they come, in peace, again
to blessed Avalon;
Then may the clouds and arcane mists
roll in, once they have undergone
their geas; this name alone persists –
a legend – Avalon.
Gold trophy winner
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