Tristram of Lyonesse - III - Tristram in Brittany

As the dawn loves the sunlight I love thee;     As men that shall be swallowed of the sea     Love the seas lovely beauty; as the night     That wanes before it loves the young sweet light,     And dies of loving; as the worn-out noon     Loves twilight, and as twilight loves the moon     That on its grave a silver seal shall set     We have loved and slain each other, and love yet.     Slain; for we live not surely, being in twain:     In her I lived, and in me she is slain,     Who loved me that I brought her to her doom,     Who loved her that her love might be my tomb.     As all the streams on earth and all fresh springs     And sweetest waters, every brook that sings,     Each fountain where the young year dips its wings     First, and the first-fledged branches of it wave,     Even with one hearts love seek one bitter grave.     From hills that first see bared the mornings breast     And heights the sun last yearns to from the west,     All tend but toward the sea, all born most high     Strive downward, passing all things joyous by,     Seek to it and cast their lives in it and die.     So strive all lives for death which all lives win;     So sought her soul to my soul, and therein     Was poured and perished: O my love, and mine     Sought to thee and died of thee and died as thine.     As the dawn loves the sunlight that must cease     Ere dawn again may rise and pass in peace;     Must die that she being dead may live again,     To be by his new rising nearly slain.     So rolls the great wheel of the great world round,     And no change in it and no fault is found,     And no true life of perdurable breath,     And surely no irrevocable death.     Day after day night comes that day may break,     And day comes back for nights reiterate sake.     Each into each dies, each of each is born:     Day past is night, shall night past not be morn?     Out of this moonless and faint-hearted night     That love yet lives in, shall there not be light?     Light strong as love, that love may live in yet?     Alas, but how shall foolish hope forget     How all these loving things that kill and die     Meet not but for a breaths space and pass by?     Night is kissed once of dawn and dies, and day     But touches twilight and is rapt away.     So may my love and her love meet once more,     And meeting be divided as of yore.     Yea, surely as the day-star loves the sun     And when he hath risen is utterly undone,     So is my love of her and hers of me     And its most sweetness bitter as the sea.     Would God yet dawn might see the sun and die!     Three years had looked on earth and passed it by     Since Tristram looked on Iseult, when he stood     So communing with dreams of evil and good,     And let all sad thoughts through his spirit sweep     As leaves through air or tears through eyes that weep     Or snowflakes through dark weather: and his soul,     That had seen all those sightless seasons roll     One after one, wave over weary wave,     Was in him as a corpse is in its grave.     Yet, for his heart was mighty, and his might     Through all the world as a great sound and light,     The mood was rare upon him; save that here     In the low sundawn of the lightening year     With all last years toil and its triumph done     He could not choose but yearn for that set sun     Which at this season saw the firstborn kiss     That made his ladys mouth one fire with his.     Yet his great heart being greater than his grief     Kept all the summer of his strength in leaf     And all the rose of his sweet spirit in flower;     Still his soul fed upon the sovereign hour     That had been or that should be; and once more     He looked through drifted sea and drifting shore     That crumbled in the wave-breach, and again     Spake sad and deep within himself: What pain     Should make a mans soul wholly break and die,     Sapped as weak sand by water? How shall I     Be less than all less things are that endure     And strive and yield when time is? Nay, full sure     All these and we are parts of one same end;     And if through fire or water we twain tend     To that sure life where both must be made one,     If one we be, what matter? Thou, O sun,     The face of God, if God thou be notnay,     What but God should I think thee, what should say,     Seeing thee rerisen, but very God?should I,     I fool, rebuke thee sovereign in thy sky,     The clouds dead round thee and the air alive,     The winds that lighten and the waves that strive     Toward this shore as to that beneath thy breath,     Because in me my thoughts bear all towards death?     O sun, that when we are dead wilt rise as bright,     Air deepening up toward heaven, and nameless light,     And heaven immeasurable, and faint clouds blown     Between us and the lowest aerial zone     And each least skirt of their imperial state     Forgive us that we held ourselves so great!     What should I do to curse you? I indeed     Am a thing meaner than this least wild weed     That my foot bruises and I know notyet     Would not be mean enough for worms to fret     Before their time and mine was.                                                                                                     Ah, and ye     Light washing weeds, blind waifs of dull blind sea,     Do ye so thirst and hunger and aspire,     Are ye so moved with such long strong desire     In the ebb and flow of your sad life, and strive     Still toward some end ye shall not see alive     But at high noon ye know it by light and heat     Some half-hour, till ye feel the fresh tide beat     Up round you, and at nights most bitter noon     The ripples leave you naked to the moon?     And this dim dusty heather that I tread,     These half-born blossoms, born at once and dead,     Sere brown as funeral cloths, and purple as pall,     What if some life and grief be in them all?     Ay, what of these? but, O strong sun! O sea!     I bid not you, divine things! comfort me,     I stand not up to match you in your sight     Who hath said ye have mercy toward us, ye who have might?     And though ye had mercy, I think I would not pray     That ye should change your counsel or your way     To make our life less bitter: if such power     Be given the stars on one deciduous hour,     And such might be in planets to destroy     Grief and rebuild, and break and build up joy,     What man would stretch forth hand on them to make     Fate mutable, God foolish, for his sake?     For if in life or death be aught of trust,     And if some unseen just God or unjust     Put soul into the body of natural things     And in times pauseless feet and worldwide wings     Some spirit of impulse and some sense of will     That steers them through the seas of good and ill     To some incognizable and actual end,     Be it just or unjust, foe to man or friend,     How should we make the stable spirit to swerve,     How teach the strong soul of the world to serve,     The imperious will in time and sense in space     That gives man life turn back to give man place     The conscious law lose conscience of its way,     The rule and reason fail from night and day,     The streams flow back toward whence the springs began,     That less of thirst might sear the lips of man?     Let that which is be, and sure strengths stand sure,     And evil or good and death or life endure,     Not alterable and rootless, but indeed     A very stem born of a very seed     That brings forth fruit in season: how should this     Die that was sown, and that not be which is,     And the old fruit change that came of the ancient root,     And he that planted bid it not bear fruit,     And he that watered smite his vine with drouth     Because its grapes are bitter in our mouth,     And he that kindled quench the sun with night     Because its beams are fire against our sight,     And he that tuned untune the sounding spheres     Because their song is thunder in our ears?     How should the skies change and the stars, and time     Break the large concord of the years that chime,     Answering, as wave to wave beneath the moon     That draws them shoreward, mar the whole tides tune     For the instant foams sake on one turning wave     For mans sake that is grass upon a grave?     How should the law that knows not soon or late,     For whom no time nor space ishow should fate,     That is not good nor evil, wise nor mad,     Nor just nor unjust, neither glad nor sad     How should the one thing that hath being, the one     That moves not as the stars move or the sun     Or any shadow or shape that lives or dies     In likeness of dead earth or living skies,     But its own darkness and its proper light     Clothe it with other names than day or night,     And its own soul of strength and spirit of breath     Feed it with other powers than life or death     How should it turn from its great way to give     Man that must die a clearer space to live?     Why should the waters of the sea be cleft,     The hills be molten to his right and left,     That he from deep to deep might pass dry-shod,     Or look between the viewless heights on God?     Hath he such eyes as, when the shadows flee,     The sun looks out with to salute the sea?     Is his hand bounteous as the mornings hand?     Or where the night stands hath he feet to stand?     Will the storm cry not when he bids it cease?     Is it his voice that saith to the east wind, Peace?     Is his breath mightier than the west winds breath?     Doth his heart know the things of life and death?     Can his face bring forth sunshine and give rain,     Or his weak will that dies and lives again     Make one thing certain or bind one thing fast,     That as he willed it shall be at the last?     How should the storms of heaven and kindled lights     And all the depths of things and topless heights     And air and earth and fire and water change     Their likeness, and the natural world grow strange,     And all the limits of their life undone     Lose count of time and conscience of the sun,     And that fall under which was fixed above,     That man might have a larger hour for love?     So musing with close lips and lifted eyes     That smiled with self-contempt to live so wise,     With silent heart so hungry now so long,     So late grown clear, so miserably made strong,     About the wolds a banished man he went,     The brown wolds bare and sad as banishment,     By wastes of fruitless flowerage, and grey downs     That felt the sea-wind shake their wild-flower crowns     As though fierce hands would pluck from some grey head     The spoils of majesty despised and dead,     And fill with crying and comfortless strange sound     Their hollow sides and heights of herbless ground.     Yet as he went fresh courage on him came,     Till dawn rose too within him as a flame;     The heart of the ancient hills and his were one;     The winds took counsel with him, and the sun     Spake comfort; in his ears the shout of birds     Was as the sound of clear sweet-spirited words,     The noise of streams as laughter from above     Of the old wild lands, and as a cry of love     Springs trumpet-blast blown over moor and lea:     The skies were red as love is, and the sea     Was as the floor of heaven for love to tread.     So went he as with light about his head,     And in the joyous travail of the year     Grew April-hearted; since nor grief nor fear     Can master so a young mans blood so long     That it shall move not to the mounting song     Of that sweet hour when earth replumes her wings     And with fair face and heart set heavenward sings     As an awakened angel unaware     That feels his sleep fall from him, and his hair     By some new breath of wind and music stirred,     Till like the sole song of one heavenly bird     Sounds all the singing of the host of heaven,     And all the glories of the sovereign Seven     Are as one face of one incorporate light.     And as that host of singers in Gods sight     Might draw toward one that slumbered, and arouse     The lips requickened and rekindling brows,     So seemed the earthly host of all things born     In sight of spring and eyeshot of the morn,     All births of land or waifs of wind and sea,     To draw toward him that sorrowed, and set free     From presage and remembrance of all pains     The life that leapt and lightened in his veins.     So with no sense abashed nor sunless look,     But with exalted eyes and heart, he took     His part of sun or storm-wind, and was glad,     For all things lost, of these good things he had.     And the spring loved him surely, being from birth     One made out of the better part of earth,     A man born as at sunrise; one that saw     Not without reverence and sweet sense of awe     But wholly without fear of fitful breath     The face of life watched by the face of death;     And living took his fill of rest and strife,     Of love and change, and fruit and seed of life,     And when his time to live in light was done     With unbent head would pass out of the sun:     A spirit as morning, fair and clear and strong,     Whose thought and work were as one harp and song     Heard through the world as in a strange kings hall     Some great guests voice that sings of festival.     So seemed all things to love him, and his heart     In all their joy of life to take such part,     That with the live earth and the living sea     He was as one that communed mutually     With naked heart to heart of friend to friend:     And the star deepening at the sunsets end,     And the moon fallen before the gate of day     As one sore wearied with vain length of way,     And the winds wandering, and the streams and skies,     As faces of his fellows in his eyes.     Nor lacked there love where he was evermore     Of man and woman, friend of sea or shore,     Not measurable with weight of graven gold,     Free as the suns gift of the world to hold     Given each day back to mans reconquering sight     That loses but its lordship for a night.     And now that after many a season spent     In barren ways and works of banishment,     Toil of strange fights and many a fruitless field,     Ventures of quest and vigils under shield,     He came back to the strait of sundering sea     That parts green Cornwall from grey Brittany,     Where dwelt the high kings daughter of the lands,     Iseult, named alway from her fair white hands,     She looked on him and loved him; but being young     Made shamefastness a seal upon her tongue,     And on her heart, that none might hear its cry,     Set the sweet signet of humility.     Yet when he came a stranger in her sight,     A banished man and weary, no such knight     As when the Swallow dipped her bows in foam     Steered singing that imperial Iseult home,     This maiden with her sinless sixteen years     Full of sweet thoughts and hopes that played at fears     Cast her eyes on him but in courteous wise,     And lo, the mans face burned upon her eyes     As though she had turned them on the naked sun:     And through her limbs she felt sweet passion run     As fire that flowed down from her face, and beat     Soft through stirred veins on even to her hands and feet     As all her body were one heart on flame,     Athrob with love and wonder and sweet shame.     And when he spake there sounded in her ears     As twere a song out of the graves of years     Heard, and again forgotten, and again     Remembered with a rapturous pulse of pain.     But as the maiden mountain snow sublime     Takes the first sense of Aprils trembling time     Soft on a brow that burns not though it blush     To feel the sunrise hardly half aflush,     So took her soul the sense of change, nor thought     That more than maiden love was more than nought.     Her eyes went hardly after him, her cheek     Grew scarce a goodlier flower to hear him speak,     Her bright mouth no more trembled than a rose     May for the least winds breathless sake that blows     Too soft to sue save for a sisters kiss,     And if she sighed in sleep she knew not this.     Yet in her heart hovered the thoughts of things     Past, that with lighter or with heavier wings     Beat round about her memory, till it burned     With grief that brightened and with hope that yearned,     Seeing him so great and sad, nor knowing what fate     Had bowed and crowned a head so sad and great.     Nor might she guess but little, first or last,     Though all her heart so hung upon his past,     Of what so bowed him for what sorrows sake:     For scarce of aught at any time he spake     That from his own land oversea had sent     His lordly life to barren banishment.     Yet still or soft or keen remembrance clung     Close round her of the least word from his tongue     That fell by chance of courtesy, to greet     With grace of tender thanks her pity, sweet     As running streams to mens way-wearied feet.     And when between strange words her name would fall,     Suddenly straightway to that lures recall     Back would his heart bound as the falconers bird,     And tremble and bow down before the word.     Iseultand all the cloudlike world grew flame,     And all his heart flashed lightning at her name;     Iseultand all the wan waste weary skies     Shone as his queens own love-enkindled eyes.     And seeing the bright blood in his face leap up     As red wine mantling in a royal cup     To hear the sudden sweetness of the sound     Ring, but ere well his heart had time to bound     His cheek would change, and grief bow down his head,     Haply, the girls heart, though she spake not, said,     This name of mine was worn of one long dead,     Some sister that he loved: and therewithal     Would pity bring her heart more deep in thrall.     But once, when winds about the world made mirth,     And March held revel hard on Aprils birth     Till air and sea were jubilant as earth,     Delight and doubt in sense and soul began,     And yearning of the maiden toward the man,     Harping on high before her: for his word     Was fire that kindled in her heart that heard,     And alway through the rhymes reverberate came     The virginal soft burden of her name.     And ere the full song failed upon her ear     Joy strove within her till it cast out fear,     And all her heart was as his harp, and rang     Swift music, made of hope whose birthnote sprang     Bright in the blood that kindled as he sang.     Stars know not how we call them, nor may flowers     Know by what happy name the hovering hours     Baptize their new-born heads with dew and flame:     And Love, adored of all time as of ours,     Iseult, knew nought for ages of his name.     With many tongues men called on him, but he     Wist not which word of all might worthiest be     To sound for ever in his ear the same,     Till heart of man might hear and soul might see,     Iseult, the radiance ringing from thy name.     By many names men called him, as the night     By many a name calls many a starry light,     Her several sovereigns of dividual fame;     But day by one name only calls aright,     Iseult, the sun that bids men praise his name.     In many a name of man his name soared high     And song shone round it soaring, till the sky     Rang rapture, and the worlds fast-founded frame     Trembled with sense of triumph, even as I,     Iseult, with sense of worship at thy name.     In many a name of woman smiled his power     Incarnate, as all summer in a flower,     Till winter bring forgetfulness or shame:     But thine, the keystone of his topless tower,     Iseult, is one with Loves own lordliest name.     Iseult my love, Iseult my queen twice crowned,     In thee my death, in thee my life lies bound:     Names are there yet that all mens hearts acclaim,     But Loves own heart rings answer to the sound,     Iseult, that bids it bow before thy name.     There ceased his voice yearning upon the word,     Struck with strong passion dumb: but she that heard     Quailed to the heart, and trembled ere her eyes     Durst let the loving light within them rise,     And yearn on his for answer: yet at last,     Albeit not all her fear was overpast,     Hope, kindling even the frost of fear apace     With sweet fleet bloom and breath of gradual grace,     Flushed in the changing roses of her face.     And ere the strife took truce of white with red,     Or joy for soft shames sake durst lift up head,     Something she would and would not fain have said,     And wist not what the fluttering word would be,     But rose and reached forth to him her hand: and he,     Heart-stricken, bowed his head and dropped his knee,     And on her fragrant hand his lips were fire;     And their two hearts were as one trembling lyre     Touched by the keen winds kiss with brief desire     And music shuddering at its own delight.     So dawned the moonrise of their marriage night.