Ah, beautiful sweet woman, made in vain, <br />Since Launcelot is dead and only I, <br />Alas for this new world of recreant men, <br />Remain in age Love's creed to justify <br />And prove his right to fools who would deny! <br />Heaven's help shall win her, though she long hath been <br />Child of a doubting Age. Or let me die <br />At her dear feet, my Guenevere, my queen. <br />--Ride therefore forth, my soul, on this last quest. <br />Oblivion soon shall fold all in its arms. <br />Love, if she love thee or love not. The loss <br />Is hers, not thine, since each thing else is dross; <br />Not thine, whom Heaven makes whole and no hurt harms, <br />Even that of death, so thou have loved thy best.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/all-white-continued/
