The Riders

Who treads those level lands of gold,

The level fields of mist and air,

And rolling mountains manifold

And towers of twilight over there?

No mortal foot upon them strays,

No archer in the towers dwells,

But feet too airy for our ways

Go up and down their hills and dells.

The people out of old romance,

And people that have never been,

And those that on the border dance

Between old history and between

Resounding fable, as the king

Who held his court at Camelot.

There Guinevere is wandering

And there the knight Sir Lancelot.

And by yon precipe of white,

As steep Roncesvalles, and more,

Within an inch of fancy's sight,

Roland the peerless rides to war.

And just the tip of Quixote's spear,

The greatest of them all by far,

Is surely visible from here!

But no: it is the Evening Star.