To that high Holy Grael, which Arthur hath
Sought ever widely by hoar wood and path;—
Thus not for me, a worldly one, to love,
Who loved her even to wonder; skied above
His worship as our moon above the Main,
That passions upward yearning in great pain,
And suffers wearily from year to year,
She peaceful pitiless with virgin cheer.—
Ah, ideal love, as merciless as fate!
And, oh, that savage aching which must wait