Three Sang Of Love Together: One With Lips Crimson, With Cheeks And Bosom In A Glow, Flushed To The Yellow Hair And Finger-Tips; And One There Sang Who Soft And Smooth As Snow Bloomed Like A Tinted Hyacinth At A Show; And One Was Blue With Famine After Love, Who Like A Harpstring Snapped Rang Harsh And Low The Burden Of What Those Were Singing Of. One Shamed Herself In Love; One Temperately Grew Gross In Soulless Love, A Sluggish Wife; One Famished Died For Love. Thus Two Of Three Took Death For Love And Won Him After Strife; One Droned In Sweetness Like A Fattened Bee: All On The Threshold, Yet All Short Of Life.