And trust me not at all or all in all.

Man dreams of fame while woman wakes to love.

His honour rooted in dishonour stood,

It is the little rift within the lute,

Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,

Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,

Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

O Love, O fire! once he drew

For though from out our bourne of time and place

He clasps the crag with crookèd hands;