"Will love be less, when dead the roguish Spring, Who, with white hands, sowed violets, whispering? When petals of her cheeks, wan-wasted through Of withering grief, are laid beneath the dew, Will love be less? "Will love be less, when comes the Summer tall? Her throat a lily, long and spiritual: When like a poppied swath,--hushed haunt of bees,-- Her form is laid in slumber on the leas, Will love be less? "Will love be less, when Autumn, sighing there, Droops with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair? When her grave eyes are closed to heaven above, Deep, lost in memory's melancholy, love, Will love be less? "Will love be less, when Winter at the door Shakes from gray locks th' icicles, long and hoar? When Death's eyes, hollow o'er his shoulder, dart Dark looks that wring with tears, then freeze the heart, 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 No majesty when we are laid at peace; But still shall reign, when souls have loved thus well, Our god in Heaven or our god in Hell."