I dreamt of the night we would meet,
Beneath the stars and the moon sweet,
And started then my rolling tears,
When I thought of those pleasant years.
O alas! By noble chance we meet,
Arm in arm we do lock and greet;
But my eyes do tremble as I stare,
For what more thing could sparkle this fair?
I shall declare my love this night,
And say things which make thee delight;
I shall sing thee sonnets and more,
And love thee as I did before.
A poem by Lancelot