The Minnesingers

In the minstrels’ strife engaging
Pass the Minnesingers by;
Strange the war that they are waging,
Strange the tourney where they vie.

Fancy, that for battle nerves him,
Is the Minnesinger’s steed;
Art as trusty buckler serves him,
And his word’s a sword indeed.

Beauteous dames, with glances pleasant,
From the balcony look down;
But the right one is not present
With the proper laurel crown.

Other combatants, when springing
To the lists, at least are sound;
Minnesingers must be bringing
To the fray a deadly wound.

He from whom the most there draineth
Song’s blood from the inmost breast,--
He is victor, and obtaineth
From fair lips the praise most blest,