A Balsam for Solstice

Reptilian green the wrinkled throat,   
Green as a bough of yew the beard;   
He bent his head, and so I smote;   
Then for a thought my vision cleared.

The head dropped clean; he rose and walked;
He fixed his fingers in the hair;
The head was unabashed and talked;   
I understood what I must dare.

His flesh, cut down, arose and grew.   
He bade me wait the season’s round,   
And then, when he had strength anew,   
To meet him on his native ground.


from Sir Gwaine and the Green Knight, by Yvor Winters