I choose to dream; there cometh on me some strange lust for deeds.
As to the nerveful hand of an exeberant warrior.
The shiny sword or the neatly polished war helmet ,
Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning,

So to my soul young and free-
Grow he old with many a jousting, many  a foray,
Grow he old with many a hither-coming and hence going-

Until they send him dreams and no more deeds;
So doth he flame again with might for action,
Forgetful of the council of elders ,
Forgetful that who ruleth do no more battle,
forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him
So doth he flame again towards valiant doing.