All White Continued

Ah, beautiful sweet woman, made in vain, Since Launcelot is dead and only I, Alas for this new world of recreant men, Remain in age Love's creed to justify And prove his right to fools who would deny! Heaven's help shall win her, though she long hath been Child of a doubting Age. Or let me die At her dear feet, my Guenevere, my queen. --Ride therefore forth, my soul, on this last quest. Oblivion soon shall fold all in its arms. Love, if she love thee or love not. The loss Is hers, not thine, since each thing else is dross; Not thine, whom Heaven makes whole and no hurt harms, Even that of death, so thou have loved thy best.