There was once a poor knight living
All alone in the wide world;
His appearance grim and livid,
But his spirit true and bold.


He once saw a saintly vision,
Something dazzling he did see,
And profoundly the impression
Cut into his memory.


For Geneva bound, he tarried
By the road; beside a cross
He beheld the Virgin Mary,
Mother of the Holy Christ.


Since that time, his soul on fire,
He at females never glanced;
Til his dying day drew nigher,
Didn’t address them ever once.


Since that time, an iron lattice
Never lifted from his face –
And the scarf gone – where the neck is,
Hung a rosary in its place.


To take prayers to the Father,
Or the Spirit, or the Son,
Was, it being an odd thing rather,
Something he had never done.


He would spend his nights entire
Bowed before the Virgin’s brow,
Weeping quietly – with dire
Tears, that melancholy flow.


Full of faith, enamored dearly
Of his pious dream, with blood
Ave, Mater Dei clearly
He inscribed upon his shield.


While the cavalry of errants
Through the Palestinian plains
Ran at trembling adversaries,
Calling the beloved names,

Lumen coelum, sancta rosa!
He called louder than the rest,
As the Muslim threats came closer
To his head from every nest.

Then, returning to his castle,
Lived, with no one by his side.
Still enamored, still bedazzled,
Uncommunioned he died.

As he readied to expire,
Lo, the Evil Spirit came.
Keen to, as the time drew nigher,
Drag his soul into His realm.

Saying, he has said no prayers.
Saying, he has held no fast;
And not properly made passes
At the mother of the Christ,

But the Holy Virgin pleaded
For his soul before the King,
Letting into Heaven’s kingdom
Her beloved paladin