On he rode, to succour bound,
But his faith grew dim;
Wells for thirst he many found,
Water none for him.
Never more from drinking deep
Rose he up and laughed;
Never more did prayerful sleep
Follow on the draught.
Good the water which they bore,
Plenteously it flowed,
Quenched his thirst, but, ah, no more
Eased his bosom's load!
For the Best no more he sighed;
Rode as in a trance;
Life grew poor, undignified,
And he spake of chance.
Then he dreamed through Jesus’ hand
That he drove a nail —
Woke and cried, “Through every land,
Lord, I seek thy Grail!”