Will love be less?"
And in her hair wept softly, and her breast
Rose and was wet with tears—as when, distressed,
Night steals on day, rain sobbing through her curls.—
"Though tears become thee even as priceless pearls,
Weep not, Morgane.—Mine no gloom of doubt,
But grief for sweet love's death I dreamed about,"
He said. "May love, the flame-anointed, be
Lord of our hearts, and king eternally!
Love, ruler of our lives, whose power shall cease