At that tyme, for hym liste ride so, And he was clad in cote and hood of grene. And in his hand he baar a myghty bowe. Of wodecraft wel koude he al the usage. A cristopher on his brest of silver sheene. Still, a trace it left upon the stony Giant's heart, and plunged in thought and weeping Slow and tortured tears, he stands there, keeping Vigil o'er the gloomy waste and lonely.
Nothing beside remains.
The lone and level sands stretch far away. I say it just Begins to live That day. My picture drowned in a transparent tear, When I look lower I espy. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favour fire. To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.