Launcelot and Gawaine
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!"
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!"
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