Two women loved a poet.
One was dark,
Luxuriant with the beauty of the south,
A heart of fire-and this one he forsook.
The other slender, tall, with wide gray eyes,
Who loved him with a still intensity
That made her heart a shrine-to her he clave,
And he was faithful to her to the end.
And when the poet died, a song was found
Which he had writ, of Launcelot and Gawaine;
And when the women read it, one cried out:
'Where got he Launcelot? Gawaine I know-
He drew that picture from a looking-glass-
Sleek, lying, treacherous, golden-tongued Gawaine!'
The other, smiling, murmured 'Launcelot!'