In the days of old in La Mancha land,
Lived a noble knight, his quest so grand,
Don Quixote, brave and true,
With his faithful squire, the world they'd view.

Oh, Don Quixote, man of dreams,
Gallant knight of noble schemes,
With lance and shield, he rides so bold,
In tales of chivalry, his story's told.

With armour rusted and heart so pure,
To right all wrongs, his oath was sure,
On Rocinante, his steed so tall,
He'd fight for honour, justice for all.

Through windmills' arms, he'd charge with might,
Mistaking them for giants in the night,
For love of Dulcinea, his lady fair,
In every deed, she was always there.

By inns and taverns, through fields of gold,
He sought adventures, stories to unfold,
With Sancho Panza, his loyal friend,
By his side until the very end.

With wisdom simple, Sancho tried,
To show the truth where folly lied,
But Quixote’s vision, noble and grand,
Saw only the magic in every land.

From castle halls to gypsy camps,
Through starry nights and misty damps,
They journeyed far, both near and wide,
With dreams and hopes, their only guide.

In battles fought and kindness shown,
A legend grew, their fame had grown,
Though mocked by many, loved by few,
Their spirits high, their hearts so true.

But time must take its final toll,
As dreams fade out and truths unfold,
Quixote, weary, laid down his arms,
Returning home from distant charms.

In peace he rested, his quest now done,
A hero's journey, a life well-spun,
And though he's gone, his tale remains,
A beacon bright through joy and pains.

So sing we now of Quixote's fight,
A knight of old with heart so light,
In every heart his dream shall stay,
A timeless tale of Don Quixote's way.

Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs—
That phraseless Melody—
The Wind does—working like a Hand—
Whose fingers Comb the Sky—
Then quiver down, with tufts of Tune—
Permitted Gods—and me—

Inheritance it is to us
Beyond the Art to Earn—
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber—since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers—
And inner than the Bone
Hid golden, for the whole of days—
And even in the Urn,
I cannot vouch the merry Dust
Do not arise and play,
In some odd fashion of it’s own—
Some quainter Holiday,
When Winds go round and round in Bands—
And thrum open the Door,
And Birds take places—overhead—
To bear them Orchestra—

I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs—
If such an Outcast be—
Who never heard that fleshless Chant—
Rise solemn on the Tree—
As if some Caravan of Sound—
Off Deserts in the Sky—
Had parted Rank—
Then knit and swept
In Seamless Company—