I

There lived a lady who was lovelier
Than anything that my poor skill may paint,
Though I would follow round the world till faint
I fell, for just one little look at her.
Who said she seemed like this or that did err;
Like her dear self she was, alone,-no taint
From touch of mortal or of earth,-blest saint
Serene, with many a faithful worshipper!
There is no poet's poesy would not
When laid against the whiteness of her meek,
Proud, solemn face make there a pitiful blot:
It is so strange that I can never speak
Of her without a tear;-oh, I forgot!
This surely may fall blameless on her cheek.

II

But of my lady's lovers there were two
Who loved her more than all; nor she nor they
Guessed which of these loved better, for one way
This had of loving, that another knew.
One round her neck brave arms of empire threw
And covered her with kisses where she lay.
The other sat apart, nor did betray
Sweet sorrow at that sight; but rather drew
His pleasure of his lady through the soul
And sense of this one. So there truly ran
Two separate loves through one embrace; the whole
This lady had of both, when one began
To clasp her close and win her to love's goal.
Now read my lover's riddle if you can!