While he spoke She neither blushed nor shook, but deathly-pale Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied: “Of all this will I nothing;” and so fell, And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. Then spake, to whom through those black walls of yew Their talk had pierced, her father: “Ay, a flash, I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot. I pray you, use some rough discourtesy To blunt or break her passion.” Lancelot said, “That were against me: what I can I will;” And there that day remained, and toward even Sent for his shield: full meekly rose the maid, Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield; Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, Unclasping flung the casement back, and looked Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound; And she by tact of love was well aware That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand, Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away. This was the one discourtesy that he used. So in her tower alone the maiden sat: His very shield was gone; only the case, Her own poor work, her empty labour, left. But still she heard him, still his picture formed And grew between her and the pictured wall. Then came her father, saying in low tones, “Have comfort,” whom she greeted quietly. Then came her brethren saying, “Peace to thee, Sweet sister,” whom she answered with all calm. But when they left her to herself again, Death, like a friend’s voice from a distant field Approaching through the darkness, called; the owls Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms Of evening, and the moanings of the wind. And in those days she made a little song, And called her song “The Song of Love and Death,” And sang it: sweetly could she make and sing. “Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain: I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. “Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be: Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. “Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. “I fain would follow love, if that could be; I needs must follow death, who calls for me; Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.”