'But travelling men whose goal afar
Shines as a cloud-constraining star
Are often weary, and wearier are
Their steeds that feel each fret and jar
⁠Wherewith the wild ways wound them: yet,
Albeit my horse be weary, still
My heart is nowise weary; will
Sustains it even till death fulfil
⁠My trust upon him set.'

'Sir,' said a knight thereby that stood,
'Meseems your shield is now not good
But worn with warrior work, nor could
Sustain in strife the strokes it would:
⁠A larger will I lend you.'
'Ay, Thereof I thank you,' Balen said,
Being single of heart as one that read
No face aright whence faith had fled,
⁠Nor dreamed that faith could fly.