And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain:
And thus it chanc’d as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart’s best brother,
And parted ne’er to meet again!
But neither ever found another
To free the hollow heart from paining—
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,