Of saddened heart was he,
That dreaded day that he was beat,
upon the distant fields of war,
Brave, Brave, Sir Eorand.

Of stout heart,
yet of staggering limp,
Of wholesome mind,
yet of cleaved flesh,
Born to the land
on which his victory eluded.

How he sits ‘neath willowy boughs,
poised in humble reflection,
immersed in Character creating loss,
and still shot forth into Victory.

His reflection upon the waters,
distorted and unclear,
thus reflected the truest form of his heart,
oddly enough.

Kneeling by the abbey’s altar,
Shedding tears,
and of heart he cried.