“To fill the days up of his dateless yearFlame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere?For first of all the sphery signs wherebyLove severs light from darkness, and most high,In the white front of January there glowsThe rose-red sign of Helen like a rose:And gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterlessWhereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitterness,A storm-star that the seafarers of loveStrain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of,Shoots keen through February's grey frost and dampThe lamplike star of Hero for a lamp;The star that Marlowe sang into our skiesWith mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes;And in clear March across the rough blue seaThe signal sapphire of AlcyoneMakes bright the blown bross of the wind-foot year;And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tearFull ere it fall, the fair next sign in sightBurns opal-wise with April-coloured lightWhen air is quick with song and rain and flame,My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath nameIseult, a light of blossom and beam and shower,My singing sign that makes the song-tree flower;Next like a pale and burning pearl beyondThe rose-white sphere of flower-named RosamondSigns the sweet head of Maytime; and for JuneFlares like an angered and storm-reddening moonHer signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyreShadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire;Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth-stone,A star south-risen that first to music shone,The keen girl-star of golden Juliet bearsLight northward to the month whose forehead wearsHer name for flower upon it, and his treesMix their deep English song with Veronese;And like an awful sovereign chrysoliteBurning, the supreme fire that blinds the night,The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars,A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of stars,The light of Cleopatra fills and burnsThe hollow of heaven whence ardent August yearns;And fixed and shining as the sister-shedSweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead,The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured sphere,That through September sees the saddening yearAs love sees change through sorrow, hath to nameFrancesca's; and the star that watches flameThe embers of the harvest overgoneIs Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon,Set in the golden girdle of sweet signsA blood-bright ruby; last save one light shinesAn eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras,The star that made men mad, Angelica's; And latest named and lordliest, with a soundOf swords and harps in heaven that ring it round,Last love-light and last love-song of the year's,Gleams like a glorious emerald Guenevere's.”
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“The eyes were hollow and the carven head was broken, but about the high, stern forehead there was a coronal of silver and gold. A trailing plant with flowers like white stars had bound itself across the brows as if in reverence for the fallen king, and in the crevices of his stony hair yellow stonecrop gleamed."They cannot conquer for ever!" said Frodo.”