" Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,High in her chamber up a tower to the eastGuarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;Which first she placed where the morning's earliest rayMight strike it, and awake her with the gleam;Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for itA case of silk, and braided thereuponAll the devices blazoned on the shieldIn their own tinct, and added, of her wit,A border fantasy of branch and flower,And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.Nor rested thus content, but day by day,Leaving her household and good father, climbedThat eastern tower, and entering barred her door,Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms,Now made a pretty history to herselfOf every dint a sword had beaten in it,And every scratch a lance had made upon it,Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there!And here a thrust that might have killed, but GodBroke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down,And saved him: so she lived in fantasy."