In Fall, the trees from Lyonesse to Logres burn in Autumn flashes. So did the heart of Tristram as singing songs of Lancelot and the Queen he rode, thinking of Fair Isolt who late from Eire did come to Mark, the Cornish King. In the woodland glade at fragrant evening he met Dagonet, Arthur's Fool, skipping as a leaf to the burning music of his addled thought. "Skip ye then to my music, Sir Fool", he cried. And Dagonet did not but listen as the leaves waved and danced. "Like ye not my music," smiled the errant knight. "Ye skip well enough to music half as good." "Oh, thy music is fair enough", quoth the Fool, "But I can make a song as well as thou." And from the broken music of his mind, Dagonet echoed back a shadow of the song that Tristram made: In the pl ume of foaming splendor, past the fecund water reads, Shot the bark of fair Ettaine, Lilly-lady-fair Elaine, Whom the people of that region, Where the lady lost her reason, And ne...