The blade held fast by stoic clutch of earth Intended for a single man since birth: Upon the hilt in celtic runes engraved An epitaph for how the king be saved, And since in canes below the lake was forged The magic brand knew well which foes to scourge. The king unsheathed his worth from holy stones As all the boulders strewn are mother's bones, And wielded it across the heaving lands Until they'd all been conquered by his hands.
Say some the sword was loose by fleeting chance Precise as judgement by a joust with lance, Some other say that Merlin hexed the Lady's gift Before embedding blade within the rift, Yet druid told before to doom he strayed That sole for Arthur was the weapon made.
Within the marrow-rock of endless time The patient sword awaits Pendragon's climb, Yet would the worth have found itself a hand If kingly stranger gave the hilt command? Or does the aether-steel unceasing sleep Denied of dreams 'til safe in Arthur's keep? Can worth that slumbers deep and makes men whole Await arrival of a single soul? These truths are lost, for Merlin scattered dust That lets our minds remember what they must, Yet after Arthur he returned the blade And to its rest beneath the waters laid.