Timothy, where are you walking to-day,
Slouching along with your hands in your pockets,
Your eyes dreamy blue, as old painters portray
Your girl-mother's eyes in your grandmother's lockets?

Timothy, why are you trudging the street
With that delicate, far-away look on your face,
Heedless of jostling folk that you meet;—
Are you walking this town, or some more remote place?

Have you returned to Lyonesse realm,
To shadow-spun towers, to tourneys and feasts,
Where a brighter sun gleams on your damascened helm,
As you sally to battle with fabulous beasts?

Timothy, is the Princess still immured
High in the keep of some monster half-mortal,
Helpless and sorrowful, since she was lured
By a magic white doe to pass under his portal?

Gird you and fight for her, Timothy mine,
For Lyonesse knights are men of good fettle;
Win her to-day while your sword edge is fine,
The morrow may prove it of different mettle.

I found you, Timothy—not long ago—
Playing wide-eyed amid Lyonesse flowers,
So I stole you for Mother; how could I know
You would hunger for Lyonesse through the long hours?