She saw but blankness; all her world was gone,

"O lady, Guinevere, my queen, my love,
What shall I say? for what remains to say?
So nobly hast thou spoken, still as ever
Nobler, my queen, a thousand times than I.
One thing thou bidd'st me that I cannot do:
Leave thee, God knows, I must; but wed, while thee,
Thee I love still, that will I never do.
More joy to me it were to cherish still
The memory of thy love, though mix'd with grief,
Than, wedded to another, find with her
The sweetest life that ever lovers found.
Nor doubt our love will bring such joy in grief,
Such sweetness of past sorrow overcome,
As will o'erpass the joys of love less true,
Less perfect. For be sure, whatever shame
May cling to love, and dim its purity,
Will pass away, if but the love remain,
And leave it in its native brightness, pure,
Unsullied as the floor and roof of heaven.