Than joy in sorrow to retell.
But if so urgently one seeks
To know our Love’s first root, I will
Do as he does who weeps and speaks.
One day of Lancelot we still
Read o’er, how love held him enchained.
Without mistrust we were alone.
Our cheeks oft were of color drained:
One passage vanquished us, but one.
When we read of lips longed for pressed