Don Quixote

GAUNT, rueful knight, on raw-boned, shambling hack,
Thy battered morion, shield and rusty spear,
Jog ever down the road in strange career,
Both tears and laughter following on thy track,
Stout Sancho hard behind, whose leathern back  
Is curved in clownish sufferance, mutual cheer
The quest beguiling as devoid of fear,
Thou spurrest to rid the world of rogues, alack!
Despite fantastic creed and addled pate,
Of awkward arms and weight of creaking steel,  
Nobility is thine—the high estate
That arms knights errant for all human weal;
How rare, La Mancha, grow such souls of late,—
Dear, foiled enthusiast, teach our hearts to feel!