Atop the meadows green Stands her with mane so sheen His gaze falls on her form so fine Not quenching but seething his thirsty pine Myriad feelings her smile induce Provoking him to drown in it and douse Her posture and grace equals a lord Mused he was at how it strikes his every chord Abrade blaze sets his eyes on fire Smoldering his thoughts and wiping away all his dire Looking at her he realizes with pleasure How he wanted her to be his treasure But time he has not to tell her you are the one For war he has to fight and fame to be won I will return to make you all mine Promise he makes to himself and divine Atop the meadows green Stands a knight in armour so sheen His gaze searches for her form so fine Her eyes divine, as mellow as wine But where is she his hearts desire The one whose sight wipes away all his dire The meadow is bare except for blooms so bright Then it dawns on him that he is so late Fame he has won but dame he has lost Pricey are accolades but look what it has cost For the very sight of her was his feverish drive His solace, his sanity and all that make him thrive Like a wounded beast who has been forfeited of all Wandered he yonder for his missing soul Atop the meadows where her thoughts dwell Stands not the knight but just his soulless shell