by W. S. Merwin
And pity, that surpasses all the other points—these pure five
Were more closely bound to that knight than to any other.
And the five forms of them, in fact, were arrayed in him,
Each one braiding into another so that there was no end,
Running among the five points that were never lost,
That never met on any side nor were ever parted,
Without end anywhere at any angle, as I find,
Wherever the game began or ran toward an end.
Therefore the knot was emblazoned on his bright shield,
Royally in red gold on a red ground,
The design which the learned refer to as the pure pentangle.
Now Gawain is resplendent and ready.
Last he picked up his own spear
And gef hem alle goud day,
He wende for euermore.
He sperred þe sted with þe spurez and sprong on his way, 670
So stif þat þe ston-fyr stroke out þerafter.
Al þat seз þat semly syked in hert,
And sayde soþly al same segges til oþer,
Carande for þat comly: ‘Bi Kryst, hit is scaþe
Þat þou, leude, schal be lost, þat art of lyf noble! 675
To fynde hys fere vpon folde, in fayth, is not eþe.
Warloker to haf wroзt had more wyt bene,
And haf dyзt зonder dere a duk to haue worþed;
A lowande leder of ledez in londe hym wel semez,
And so had better haf ben þen britned to noзt, 680
Hadet wyth an aluisch mon, for angardez pryde.
Who knew euer any kyng such counsel to take
As knyзtez in cauelaciounz on Crystmasse gomnez!'
Wel much watz þe warme water þat waltered of yзen,
When þat semly syre soзt fro þo wonez þad daye. 685
He made non abode,
Bot wyзtly went hys way;
Mony wylsum way he rode,
Þe bok as I herde say. 690
Now ridez þis renk þurз þe ryalme of Logres,
Sir Gauan, on Godez halue, þaз hym no gomen þoзt.
Oft leudlez alone he lengez on nyзtez
Þer he fonde noзt hym byfore þe fare þat he lyked.
Hade he no fere bot his fole bi frythez and dounez, 695
Ne no gome bot God bi gate wyth to karp,
Til þat he neзed ful neghe into þe Norþe Walez.
And bade them all good day
And set out for evermore.
He set spurs to his horse and sprang on his way
With such force that sparks flew from the stone behind him.
All who were watching that glorious knight sighed in their hearts,
And they all spoke mournfully to each other,
Grieving for that fair person: “By Christ, what a calamity
That you should be lost, Prince, whose life is so noble!
In faith it is not easy to find his equal upon earth.
It would have been wiser to proceed more prudently
And to have given that noble knight a dukedom to govern.
He would have made a great lord in the country,
And better that than being cut into nothing,
Beheaded by some creature from elfland because of vain pride.
Who ever heard of a king heeding such counsel
Among the court mummeries in the Christmas season?”
Many warm tears welled out of their eyes
When that fine lord went out of the house that day.
He lodged nowhere
But pressed ahead on his way,
Which was foreign and far,
As I heard the book say.
Now this knight rides through the realm of Logres:
Sir Gawain, in God's name, and it was no game for him.
Many nights he spends by himself, with no one,
Without having the food he likes set down before him.
He had no company but his horse through the woods and over the hills,
And no one but God to talk with on his way,
Until he had nearly come into North Wales.
Alle þe iles of Anglesay on lyft half he haldez,
And farez ouer þe fordez by þe forlondez,
Ouer at þe Holy Hede, til he hade eft bonk 700
In þe wyldrenesse of Wyrale; wonde þer bot lyte
Þat auþer God oþer gome wyth goud hert louied.
And ay he frayned, as he ferde, at frekez þat he met,
If þay hade herde any karp of a knyзt grene,
In any grounde þeraboute, of þe grene chapel; 705
And al nykked hym wyth nay, þat neuer in her lyue
Þay seзe neuer no segge þat watz of suche hwez of grene.
Þe knyзt tok gates straunge
In mony a bonk vnbene, 710
His cher ful oft con chaunge
Þat chapel er he myзt sene.
Mony klyf he ouerclambe in contrayez straunge,
Fer floten fro his frendez fremedly he rydez.
At vche warþe oþer water þer þe wyзe passed 715
He fonde a foo hym byfore, bot ferly hit were,
And þat so foule and so felle þat feзt hym byhode.
So mony meruayl bi mount þer þe mon fyndez,
Hit were to tore for to telle of þe tenþe dole.
Sumwhyle wyth wormez he werrez, and with wolues als, 720
Sumwhyle wyth wodwos, þat woned in þe knarrez,
Boþe wyth bullez and berez, and borez oþerquyle,
And etaynez, þat hym anelede of þe heзe felle;
Nade he ben duзty and dryзe, and Dryзtyn had serued,
Douteles he hade ben ded and dreped ful ofte. 725
For werre wrathed hym not so much þat wynter nas wors,
When þe colde cler water fro þe cloudez schadde,
And fres er hit falle myзt to þe fale erþe;
He has all the isles of Anglesey to the left of him
And rides across the fords between the headlands
Over by Holyhead, and out on the far shore,
Into the wilderness of Wirral, where there were few living
Who had love at all for God or anyone.
And always as he went he asked whoever he met
Whether they had ever heard tell of a Green Knight
Anywhere in that country, or of the Green Chapel,
And they all said no to him, and that never in their lives
Had they ever seen anyone of a green color like that.
The knight followed strange roads
Across many a wild hill.
He will pass through many moods
Before he beholds that chapel.
Many crags he climbed across in wild places.
Far from his friends he rides, wandering as a stranger.
At each river bank, as the knight crossed another water,
It was a wonder if he did not find another foe facing him,
And so foul and fierce that he had to fight with it.
So many marvels the man met on those mountains
That it would be hard to tell the tenth part of it.
Sometimes he fights with dragons, and with wolves at other times,
Sometimes with trolls holed up in the crags,
And at other times with bulls and bears and wild boars
And ogres panting after him out of the wild cliff faces.
Had he not been strong and steadfast and in God's service,
Doubtless he would have been killed many times over, and done with.
It was not the fighting that afflicted him so much: the winter was worse
When the cold clear water poured out of the clouds
And froze before it could fall upon the pale earth.
Ner slayn wyth þe slete he sleped in his yrnes
Mo nyзtez þen innoghe in naked rokkez, 730
Þer as claterande fro þe crest þe colde borne rennez,
And henged heзe
ouer his hede in hard iisse-ikkles.
Þus in peryl and payne and plytes ful harde
Bi contray caryez þis knyзt, tyl Krystmasse euen, al one; 735
Þe knyзt wel þat tyde
To Mary made his mone,
Þat ho hym red to ryde
And wysse hym to sum wone.
Bi a mounte on þe morne meryly he rydes 740
Into a forest ful dep, þat ferly watz wylde,
Hiзe hillez on vche a halue, and holtwodez vnder
Of hore okez ful hoge a hundreth togeder;
Þe hasel and þe haзþorne were harled al samen,
With roзe raged mosse rayled aywhere, 745
With mony bryddez vnblyþe vpon bare twyges,
Þat pitosly þer piped for pyne of þe colde.
Þe gome vpon Gryngolet glydez hem vnder,
Þurз mony misy and myre, mon al hym one,
Carande for his costes, lest he ne keuer schulde 750
To se þe seruyse of þat syre, þat on þat self nyзt
Of a burde watz borne oure baret to quelle;
And þerfore sykyng he sayde, ‘I beseche þe, lorde,
And Mary, þat is myldest moder so dere, Of sum herber þer heзly I myзt here masse, 755
Ande þy matynez to-morne, mekely I ask,
And þerto prestly I pray my pater and aue and crede.'
Nearly slain by the sleet he slept in his armor
Among naked rocks more than enough nights
Where the cold stream runs splashing down from the crest
And the hard icicles hung high over his head.
Thus in peril and hardship and the risk of his life
This knight rides through that region until Christmas Eve, alone.
Then the knight devoutly
Made his plaint to Mary, asking
Her to guide him on his way
And lead him to some dwelling.
In the morning, with a high heart he rides by a mountain
Into the depths of a forest so wild he marveled at it,
High hills all around him and woods on the hillsides,
Hoary oaks, huge ones, a hundred of them together.
The hazel and the hawthorn tangled in each other
With rough shaggy moss massed on them everywhere,
And many birds mournful on the bare twigs,
Piteously piping there from the pain of the cold.
The knight pushes on, beneath them, on Gryngolet,
Through many bogs and mires, all by himself,
Anxious about his devotions, for fear that he would fail
To observe that lord's service who on that same night
Was born of a maiden to end our suffering,
And so he said, sighing, “Lord, I beseech you,
And Mary, most tender, most precious of mothers,
For some house where I may hear Mass devoutly,
And your matins tomorrow morning; meekly I ask it
And for that pray here and now my Pater and Ave and Creed.”
He rode in his prayere,
And cryed for his mysdede, 760
He sayned hym in syþes sere,
And sayde ‘Cros Kryst me spede!’
Nade he sayned hymself, segge, bot þrye,
Er he watz war in þe wod of a won in a mote,
Abof a launde, on a lawe, loken vnder boзez 765
Of mony borelych bole aboute bi þe diches:
A castel þe comlokest þat euer knyзt aзte,
Pyched on a prayere, a park al aboute,
With a pyked palays pyned ful þik,
Þat vmbeteзe mony tre mo þen two myle. 770
Þat holde on þat on syde þe haþel auysed,
As hit schemered and schon þurз þe schyre okez;
Þenne hatz he hendly of his helme, and heзly he þonkez
Jesus and sayn Gilyan, þat gentyle ar boþe,
Þat cortaysly had hym kydde, and his cry herkened.
‘Now bone hostel,’ coþe þe burne, ‘I beseche yow зette!’ 776
Þenne gerdez he to Gryngolet with þe gilt helez,
And he ful chauncely hatz chosen to þe chef gate,
Þat broзt bremly þe burne to þe bryge ende in haste. 780
Þe bryge watz breme vpbrayde,
Þe зatez wer stoken faste,
Þe wallez were wel arayed,
Hit dut no wyndez blaste.
Þe burne bode on blonk, þat on bonk houed 785
Of þe depe double dich þat drof to þe place;
Þe walle wod in þe water wonderly depe,
Ande eft a ful huge heзt hit haled vpon lofte
He rode on, praying, repenting
His misdeeds, and he
Kept crossing himself, saying,
“Cross of Christ, bless me!”
The knight had not crossed himself more
than three times When he saw through the forest a house inside a moat
Above a meadow, on a mound, shaded by the boughs
Of many massive trunks along the water's edge.
The loveliest castle that any knight ever had,
Built on a green, a park all around it
With a palisade of pikes planted on all sides
And many trees, for more than two miles around them.
The knight gazed at the side of the castle nearest to him,
Shimmering and shining through the gleaming oaks.
Then he takes off his helmet and devoutly thanks
Jesus and Saint Julian, both of whom are kind,
Who had heard his cry and answered him with kindness.
“Now I beg you,” the knight said, “to grant me good lodging.”
Then with his gilded heels he spurs Gryngolet
And by chance it was the main approach that he had found
And before long he arrived at the end of the drawbridge.
The bridge was pulled up hard,
The gates were shut fast.
The walls were solid,
Fearing no wind's blast.
Astride his horse, the knight waited on the bank
Of the deep double ditch that encircled the palace.
The wall went wonderfully deep into the water
And it rose to a huge height over him,
Of harde hewen ston vp to þe tablez,
Enbaned vnder þe abataylment in þe best lawe; 790
And syþen garytez ful gaye gered bitwene,
Wyth mony luflych loupe þat louked ful clene:
A better barbican þat burne blusched vpon neuer.
And innermore he behelde þat halle ful hyзe,
Towres telded bytwene, trochet ful þik, 795
Fayre fylyolez þat fyзed, and ferlyly long,
With coruon coprounes craftyly sleзe.
Chalkwhyt chymnees þer ches he innoзe
Vpon bastel rouez, þat blenked ful quyte;
So mony pynakle payntet watz poudred ayquere, 800
Among þe castel carnelez clambred so þik,
Þat pared out of papure purely hit semed.
Þe fre freke on þe fole hit fayr innoghe þoзt,
If he myзt keuer to com þe cloyster wythinne,
To herber in þat hostel whyl halyday lested, auinant. 805
He calde, and sone þer com
A porter pure plesaunt,
On þe wal his ernd he nome,
And haylsed þe knyзt erraunt. 810
‘Gode sir,’ quoþ Gawan, ‘woldez þou go myn ernde
To þe heз lorde of þis hous, herber to craue?'
‘Зe, Peter,’ quoþ þe porter, ‘and purely I trowee
Þat зe be, wyзe, welcum to won quyle yow lykez.'
Þen зede þe wyзe зerne and com aзayn swyþe, 815
And folke frely hym wyth, to fonge þe knyзt.
Þay let doun þe grete draзt and derely out зeden,
And kneled doun on her knes vpon þe colde erþe
To welcum þis ilk wyз as worþy hom þoзt;
With ledges stepped beneath the battlements in the best manner
And elegant watchtowers arranged at intervals
With many fine windows neatly locked shut.
Never had that knight beheld better defenses.
And he saw, farther inside that tall castle,
Towers rising around it, clustered with pinnacles,
Graceful spires set perfectly, their length a marvel,
With carvings at the tops of them artfully made.
And he could make out many chalk-white chimneys,
Their white gleaming over the roofs of the towers.
There were so many painted pinnacles all over it everywhere,
So densely arrayed among the castle battlements,
That they appeared to have been cut cleverly out of paper.
To the knight on his horse it seemed more than he had hoped for.
If he could make his way into that enclosure,
He would be happy to stay in that house for the holiday.
He called, and in a short while
A porter came, perfectly polite,
Who took up his post on the wall
And greeted the questing knight.
“Good sir,” Gawain said, “will you be my messenger
To the lord of this house, to ask him for lodging here?”
“Yes, in Peter's name,” the porter said, “and I am sure
That you will be welcome, Knight, for as long as you like.”
Then before long that gentleman was back,
And others with him, to make the knight welcome.
They let down the great drawbridge and came out courteously
And knelt down on their knees upon the cold earth
To welcome this very man as they thought he deserved.
Þay зolden hym þe brode зate, зarked vp wyde, 820
And he hem raysed rekenly, and rod ouer þe brygge.
Sere seggez hym sesed by sadel, quel he lyзt,
And syþen stabeled his stede stif men innoзe.
Knyзtez and swyerez comen doun þenne
For to bryng þis buurne wyth blys into halle; 825
Quen he hef vp his helme, þer hiзed innoghe
For to hent hit at his honde, þe hende to seruen;
His bronde and his blasoun boþe þay token.
Þen haylsed he ful hendly þo haþelez vchone,
And mony proud mon þer presed þat prynce to honour. 830
Alle hasped in his heз wede to halle þay hym wonnen,
Þer fayre fyre vpon flet fersly brenned.
Þenne þe lorde of þe lede loutez fro his chambre
