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HOW could a woman love him; love, or wed?"And thinking only of his tuneless faceAnd arms that held no hint of skill or grace,They shook a slow, commiserative headTo see him amble by; but still they fedTheir wilting hearts on his, were fired to raceOnce more, and panting at life's deadly pace,They drank as wine the blood-in-song he shed.
Yet in the dream-walled room where last he lay,Soft garments gathered dust all night and day,As women whom he loved and sang of cameTo smooth his brow and wail a secret name.A rose placed in his hand by GuinevereWas drenched with Magdalen's eternal tear.
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