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!"
