Tristram of Lyonesse - VIII - The Last Pilgrimage

Enough of ease, O Love, enough of light,     Enough of rest before the shadow of night.     Strong Love, whom death finds feebler; kingly Love,     Whom time discrowns in season, seeing thy dove     Spell-stricken by the serpent; for thy sake     These that saw light see nights dawn only break,     Nights cup filled up with slumber, whence men think     The draught more dread than thine was dire to drink.     O Love, thy day sets darkling: hope and fear     Fall from thee standing stern as death stands here.     For what have these to do with fear or hope     On whom the gates of outer darkness ope,     On whom the door of lifes desire is barred?     Past like a cloud, their days in Joyous Gard     Gleam like a cloud the westering sun stains red     Till all the blood of days blithe heart be bled     And all nights heart requickened; in their eyes     So flame and fade those far memorial skies,     So shines the moorland, so revives the sea,     Whereon they gazing mused of things to be     And wist not more of them than waters know     What wind with next days change of tide shall blow.     Dark roll the deepening days whose waves divide     Unseasonably, with storm-struck change of tide,     Tristram from Iseult: nor may sorrow say     If better wind shall blow than yesterday     With next day risen or any day to come.     For ere the songs of summers death fell dumb,     And autumn bade the imperial moorlands change     Their purples, and the brackens bloom grow strange     As hopes green blossom touched with times harsh rust,     Was all their joy of life shaken to dust,     And all its fire made ashes: by the strand     Where late they strayed and communed hand from hand     For the last time fell separate, eyes of eyes     Took for the last time leave, and saw the skies     Dark with their deep division. The last time     The last that ever loves rekindling rhyme     Should keep for them lifes days and nights in tune     With refluence of the morning and the moon     Alternative in music, and make one     The secrets of the stardawn and the sun     For these twain souls ere darkness held them fast;     The last before the labour marked for last     And toil of utmost knighthood, till the wage     Of rest might crown his crowning pilgrimage     Whereon forth faring must he take farewell,     With spear for staff and sword for scallop-shell     And scrip wherein close memory hoarded yet     Things holier held than death might well forget;     The last time ere the travel were begun     Whose goal is unbeholden of the sun,     The last wherewith loves eyes might yet be lit,     Came, and they could but dream they knew not it.     For Tristram parting from her wist at heart     How well she wist they might not choose but part,     And he pass forth a pilgrim, when there came     A sound of summons in the high kings name     For succour toward his vassal Triamour,     King in wild Wales, now spoiled of all his power,     As Tristrams father ere his fair sons birth,     By one the strongest of the sons of earth,     Urgan, an iron bulk of giant mould:     And Iseult in Tintagel as of old     Sat crowned with state and sorrow: for her lord     At Arthurs hand required her back restored,     And willingly compelled against her will     She yielded, saying within her own soul still     Some season yet of soft or stormier breath     Should haply give her life again or death:     For now nor quick nor dead nor bright nor dark     Were all her nights and days wherein King Mark     Held haggard watch upon her, and his eyes     Were cloudier than the gradual wintering skies     That closed about the wan wild land and sea.     And bitter toward him waxed her heart: but he     Was rent in twain betwixt harsh love and hate     With pain and passion half compassionate     That yearned and laboured to be quit of shame,     And could not: and his life grew smouldering flame.     And hers a cloud full-charged with storm and shower,     Though touched with trembling gleams of fires bright flower     That flashed and faded on its fitful verge,     As hope would strive with darkness and emerge     And sink, a swimmer strangled by the swallowing surge.     But Tristram by dense hills and deepening vales     Rode through the wild glad wastes of glorious Wales,     High-hearted with desire of happy fight     And strong in soul with merrier sense of might     Than since the fair first years that hailed him knight:     For all his will was toward the war, so long     Had love repressed and wrought his glory wrong,     So far the triumph and so fair the praise     Seemed now that kindled all his April days.     And here in bright blown autumn, while his life     Was summers yet for strength toward love or strife,     Blithe waxed his hope toward battle, and high desire     To pluck once more as out of circling fire     Fame, the broad flower whose breath makes death more sweet     Than roses crushed by loves receding feet.     But all the lovely land wherein he went     The blast of ruin and ravenous war had rent;     And black with fire the fields where homesteads were,     And foul with festering dead the high soft air,     And loud with wail of women many a stream     Whose own live song was like loves deepening dream,     Spake all against the spoiler: wherefore still     Wrath waxed with pity, quickening all his will,     In Tristrams heart for every league he rode     Through the aching land so broad a curse bestrode     With so supreme a shadow: till one dawn     Above the green bloom of a gleaming lawn,     High on the strait steep windy bridge that spanned     A glens deep mouth, he saw that shadow stand     Visible, sword on thigh and mace in hand     Vast as the mid bulk of a roof-trees beam.     So, sheer above the wild wolf-haunted stream,     Dire as the face disfeatured of a dream,     Rose Urgan: and his eyes were night and flame;     But like the fiery dawn were his that came     Against him, lit with more sublime desire     Than lifts toward heaven the leaping heart of fire:     And strong in vantage of his perilous place     The huge high presence, red as earths first race,     Reared like a reed the might up of his mace,     And smote: but lightly Tristram swerved, and drove     Right in on him, whose void stroke only clove     Air, and fell wide, thundering athwart: and he     Sent forth a stormier cry than wind or sea     When midnight takes the tempest for her lord;     And all the glens throat seemed as hells that roared;     But high like heavens light over hell shone Tristrams sword,     Falling, and bright as storm shows Gods bare brand     Flashed as it shore sheer off the huge right hand     Whose strength was as the shadow of death on all that land.     And like the trunk of some grim tree sawn through     Reeled Urgan, as his left hand grasped and drew     A steel by sorcerers tempered: and anew     Raged the red wind of fluctuant fight, till all     The cliffs were thrilled as by the clangorous call     Of storms blown trumpets from the core of night,     Charging: and even as with the storm-winds might     On Tristrams helm that sword crashed: and the knight     Fell, and his arms clashed, and a wide cry brake     From those far off that heard it, for his sake     Soul-stricken: and that bulk of monstrous birth     Sent forth again a cry more dire for mirth:     But ere the sunbright arms were soiled of earth     They flashed again, re-risen: and swift and loud     Rang the strokes out as from a circling cloud,     So dense the dust wrought over them its drifted shroud.     Strong strokes, within the mist their battle made,     Each hailed on other through the shifting shade     That clung about them hurtling as the swift fight swayed:     And each between the jointed corslet saw     Break forth his foes bright blood at each grim flaw     Steel made in hammered iron: till again     The fiend put forth his might more strong for pain     And cleft the great knights glittering shield in twain,     Laughing for very wrath and thirst to kill,     A beasts broad laugh of blind and wolfish will,     And smote again ere Tristrams lips drew breath     Panting, and swept as by the sense of death,     That surely should have touched and sealed them fast     Save that the sheer stroke shrilled aside, and passed     Frustrate: but answering Tristram smote anew,     And thrust the brute breast as with lightning through     Clean with one cleaving stroke of perfect might:     And violently the vast bulk leapt upright,     And plunged over the bridge, and fell: and all     The cliffs reverberate from his monstrous fall     Rang: and the land by Tristrams grace was free.     So with high laud and honour thence went he,     And southward set his sail again, and passed     The lone lands ending, first beheld and last     Of eyes that look on England from the sea:     And his heart mourned within him, knowing how she     Whose heart with his was fatefully made fast     Sat now fast bound, as though some charm were cast     About her, such a brief space eastward thence,     And yet might soul not break the bonds of sense     And bring her to him in very life and breath     More than had this been even the sea of death     That washed between them, and its wide sweet light     The dim straits darkness of the narrowing night     That shuts about men dying whose souls put forth     To pierce its passage through: but south and north     Alike for him were other than they were:     For all the northward coast shone smooth and fair,     And off its iron cliffs the keen-edged air     Blew summer, kindling from her mute bright mouth;     But winter breathed out of the murmuring south,     Where, pale with wrathful watch on passing ships,     The lone wife lay in wait with wan dumb lips.     Yet, sailing where the shoreward ripple curled     Of the most wild sweet waves in all the world,     His soul took comfort even for joy to see     The strong deep joy of living sun and sea,     The large deep love of living sea and land,     As past the lonely lion-guarded strand     Where the huge warder lifts his couchant sides,     Asleep, above the sleepless lapse of tides,     The light sail swept, and past the unsounded caves     Unsearchable, wherein the pulse of waves     Throbs through perpetual darkness to and fro,     And the blind night swims heavily below     While heavily the strong noon broods above,     Even to the very bay whence very Love,     Strong daughter of the giant gods who wrought     Sun, earth, and sea out of their procreant thought,     Most meetly might have risen, and most divine     Beheld and heard things round her sound and shine     From floors of foam and gold to walls of serpentine.     For splendid as the limbs of that supreme     Incarnate beauty through mens visions gleam,     Whereof all fairest things are even but shadow or dream,     And lovely like as Loves own heavenliest face,     Gleams there and glows the presence and the grace     Even of the mother of all, in perfect pride of place.     For otherwhere beneath our world-wide sky     There may not be beheld of men that die     Aught else like this that dies not, nor may stress     Of ages that bow down mens works make less     The exultant awe that clothes with power its loveliness.     For who sets eye thereon soever knows     How since these rocks and waves first rolled and rose     The marvel of their many-coloured might     Hath borne this record sensible to sight,     The witness and the symbol of their own delight,     The gospel graven of lifes most heavenly law,     Joy, brooding on its own still soul with awe,     A sense of godlike rest in godlike strife,     The sovereign conscience of the spirit of life.     Nor otherwhere on strand or mountain tower     Hath such fair beauty shining forth in flower     Put on the imperial robe of such imperious power.     For all the radiant rocks from depth to height     Burn with vast bloom of glories blossom-bright     As though the suns own hand had thrilled them through with light     And stained them through with splendour: yet from thence     Such awe strikes rapture through the spirit of sense     From all the inaccessible sea-walls girth,     That exultation, bright at heart as mirth,     Bows deeper down before the beauty of earth     Than fear may bow down ever: nor shall one     Who meets at Alpine dawn the mounting sun     On heights too high for many a wing to climb     Be touched with sense of aught seen more sublime     Than here smiles high and sweet in face of heaven and time.     For here the flower of fire, the soft hoar bloom     Of springtide olive-woods, the warm green gloom     Of clouded seas that swell and sound with dawn of doom,     The keen thwart lightning and the wan grey light     Of stormy sunrise crossed and vexed with night,     Flash, loom, and laugh with divers hues in one     From all the curved cliffs face, till day be done,     Against the seas face and the gazing sun.     And whensoever a strong wave, high in hope,     Sweeps up some smooth slant breadth of stone aslope,     That glowed with duskier fire of hues less bright,     Swift as it sweeps back springs to sudden sight     The splendour of the moist rocks fervent light,     Fresh as from dew of birth when time was born     Out of the world-conceiving womb of morn.     All its quenched flames and darkling hues divine     Leap into lustrous life and laugh and shine     And darken into swift and dim decline     For one brief breaths space till the next wave run     Right up, and ripple down again, undone,     And leave it to be kissed and kindled of the sun.     And all these things, bright as they shone before     Man first set foot on earth or sail from shore,     Rose not less radiant than the sun sees now     When the autumn sea was cloven of Tristrams prow,     And strong in sorrow and hope and woful will     That hope might move not nor might sorrow kill     He held his way back toward the wild sad shore     Whence he should come to look on these no more,     Nor ever, save with sunless eyes shut fast,     Sail home to sleep in home-born earth at last.     And all these things fled fleet as light or breath     Past, and his heart waxed cold and dull as death,     Or swelled but as the tides of sorrow swell,     To sink with sullen sense of slow farewell.     So surely seemed the silence even to sigh     Assurance of inveterate prophecy,     Thou shalt not come again home hither ere thou die.     And the wind mourned and triumphed, and the sea     Wailed and took heart and trembled; nor might he     Hear more of comfort in their speech, or see     More certitude in all the waste worlds range     Than the only certitude of death and change.     And as the sense and semblance fluctuated     Of all things heard and seen alive or dead     That smote far off upon his ears or eyes     Or memory mixed with forecasts fain to rise     And fancies faint as ghostliest prophecies,     So seemed his own soul, changefully forlorn,     To shrink and triumph and mount up and mourn;     Yet all its fitful waters, clothed with night,     Lost heart not wholly, lacked not wholly light,     Seeing over life and death one star in sight     Where evenings gates as fair as mornings ope,     Whose name was memory, but whose flame was hope.     For all the tides of thought that rose and sank     Felt its fair strength wherefrom strong sorrow shrank     A mightier trust than time could change or cloy,     More strong than sorrow, more secure than joy.     So came he, nor content nor all unblest,     Back to the grey old land of Merlins rest.     But ere six paces forth on shore he trod     Before him stood a knight with feet unshod,     And kneeling called upon him, as on God     Might sick men call for pity, praying aloud     With hands held up and head made bare and bowed;     Tristram, for Gods love and thine own dear fame,     I Tristram that am one with thee in name     And one in heart with all that praise theeI,     Most woful man of all that may not die     For heartbreak and the heavier scourge of shame,     By all thy glory done our woful name     Beseech thee, called of all men gentlest knight,     Be now not slow to do my sorrows right.     I charge thee for thy fames sake through this land,     I pray thee by thine own wifes fair white hand,     Have pity of me whose love is borne away     By one that makes of poor mens lives his prey,     A felon masked with knighthood: at his side     Seven brethren hath he night or day to ride     With seven knights more that wait on all his will:     And here at hand, ere yet one day fulfil     Its flight through light and darkness, shall they fare     Forth, and my bride among them, whom they bear     Through these wild lands his prisoner; and if now     I lose her, and my prayer be vain, and thou     Less fain to serve loves servants than of yore,     Then surely shall I see her face no more.     But if thou wilt, for loves sake of the bride     Who lay most loved of women at thy side,     Strike with me, straight then hence behoves us ride     And rest between the moorside and the sea     Where we may smite them passing: but for me,     Poor stranger, me not worthy scarce to touch     Thy kind strong hand, how shouldst thou do so much?     For now lone left this long time waits thy wife     And lacks her lord and light of wedded life     Whilst thou far off art famous: yet thy fame,     If thou take pity on me that bear thy name     Unworthily, but by that name implore     Thy grace, how shall not even thy fame grow more?     But be thy will as Gods among us done,     Who art far in fame above us as the sun:     Yet only of him have all men help and grace.     And all the lordly light of Tristrams face     Was softened as the suns in kindly spring.     Nay, then may God send me as evil a thing     When I give ear not to such prayers, he said,     And make my place among the nameless dead     When I put back one hour the time to smite     And do the unrighteous griefs of good men right.     Behold, I will not enter in nor rest     Here in mine own halls till this piteous quest     Find end ere noon to-morrow: but do thou,     Whose sisters face I may not look on now,     Go, Ganhardine, with tiding of the vow     That bids me turn aside for one days strife     Or live dishonoured all my days of life,     And greet for me in brothers wise my wife,     And crave her pardon that for knighthoods sake     And womanhoods, whose bands may no man break     And keep the bands of bounden honour fast,     I seek not her till two nights yet be past     And this my quest accomplished, so God please     By me to give this young mans anguish ease     And on his wrongdoers head his wrong requite.     And Tristram with that woful thankful knight     Rode by the seaside moorland wastes away     Between the quickening night and darkening day     Ere half the gathering stars had heart to shine.     And lightly toward his sister Ganhardine     Sped, where she sat and gazed alone afar     Above the grey sea for the sunset star,     And lightly kissed her hand and lightly spake     His tiding of that quest for knighthoods sake.     And the white-handed Iseult, bowing her head,     Gleamed on him with a glance athwart, and said,     As Gods on earth and far above the sun,     So toward his handmaid be my lords will done.     And doubts too dim to question or divine     Touched as with shade the spirit of Ganhardine,     Hearing; and scarce for half a doubtful breath     His bright light heart held half a thought of death     And knew not whence this darkling thought might be,     But surely not his sisters work: for she     Was ever sweet and good as summer air,     And soft as dew when all the night is fair,     And gracious as the golden maiden moon     When darkness craves her blessing: so full soon     His mind was light again as leaping waves,     Nor dreamed that hers was like a field of graves     Where no mans foot dares swerve to left or right,     Nor ear dares hearken, nor dares eye take sight     Of aught that moves and murmurs there at night.     But by the sea-banks where at morn their foes     Might find them, lay those knightly name-fellows,     One sick with grief of heart and sleepless, one     With heart of hope triumphant as the sun     Dreaming asleep of love and fame and fight:     But sleep at last wrapped warm the wan young knight;     And Tristram with the first pale windy light     Woke ere the sun spake summons, and his ear     Caught the seas call that fired his heart to hear,     A noise of waking waters: for till dawn     The sea was silent as a mountain lawn     When the wind speaks not, and the pines are dumb,     And summer takes her fill ere autumn come     Of life more soft than slumber: but ere day     Rose, and the first beam smote the bounding bay,     Up sprang the strength of the dark East, and took     With its wide wings the waters as they shook,     And hurled them huddling on aheap, and cast     The full sea shoreward with a great glad blast,     Blown from the heart of morning: and with joy     Full-souled and perfect passion, as a boy     That leaps up light to wrestle with the sea     For pure hearts gladness and large ecstasy,     Up sprang the might of Tristram; and his soul     Yearned for delight within him, and waxed whole     As a young childs with rapture of the hour     That brought his spirit and all the world to flower,     And all the bright blood in his veins beat time     To the winds clarion and the waters chime     That called him and he followed it and stood     On the sands verge before the grey great flood     Where the white hurtling heads of waves that met     Rose unsaluted of the sunrise yet.     And from his hearts root outward shot the sweet     Strong joy that thrilled him to the hands and feet,     Filling his limbs with pleasure and glad might,     And his soul drank the immeasurable delight     That earth drinks in with morning, and the free     Limitless love that lifts the stirring sea     When on her bare bright bosom as a bride     She takes the young sun, perfect in his pride,     Home to his place with passion: and the heart     Trembled for joy within the man whose part     Was here not least in living; and his mind     Was rapt abroad beyond mans meaner kind     And pierced with love of all things and with mirth     Moved to make one with heaven and heavenlike earth     And with the light live water. So awhile     He watched the dim sea with a deepening smile,     And felt the sound and savour and swift flight     Of waves that fled beneath the fading night     And died before the darkness, like a song     With harps between and trumpets blown along     Through the loud air of some triumphant day,     Sink through his spirit and purge all sense away     Save of the glorious gladness of his hour     And all the world about to break in flower     Before the sovereign laughter of the sun;     And he, ere nights wide work lay all undone,     As earth from her bright body casts off night,     Cast off his raiment for a rapturous fight     And stood between the seas edge and the sea     Naked, and godlike of his mould as he     Whose swift foots sound shook all the towers of Troy;     So clothed with might, so girt upon with joy     As, ere the knife had shorn to feed the fire     His glorious hair before the unkindled pyre     Whereon the half of his great heart was laid,     Stood, in the light of his live limbs arrayed,     Child of heroic earth and heavenly sea,     The flower of all men: scarce less bright than he,     If any of all men latter-born might stand,     Stood Tristram, silent, on the glimmering strand.     Not long: but with a cry of love that rang     As from a trumpet golden-mouthed, he sprang,     As toward a mothers where his head might rest     Her child rejoicing, toward the strong seas breast     That none may gird nor measure: and his heart     Sent forth a shout that bade his lips not part,     But triumphed in him silent: no mans voice,     No song, no sound of clarions that rejoice,     Can set that glory forth which fills with fire     The body and soul that have their whole desire     Silent, and freer than birds or dreams are free     Take all their will of all the encountering sea.     And toward the foam he bent and forward smote,     Laughing, and launched his body like a boat     Full to the sea-breach, and against the tide     Struck strongly forth with amorous arms made wide     To take the bright breast of the wave to his     And on his lips the sharp sweet minutes kiss     Given of the waves lip for a breaths space curled     And pure as at the daydawn of the world.     And round him all the bright rough shuddering sea     Kindled, as though the world were even as he,     Heart-stung with exultation of desire:     And all the life that moved him seemed to aspire,     As all the seas life toward the sun: and still     Delight within him waxed with quickening will     More smooth and strong and perfect as a flame     That springs and spreads, till each glad limb became     A note of rapture in the tune of life,     Live music mild and keen as sleep and strife:     Till the sweet change that bids the sense grow sure     Of deeper depth and purity more pure     Wrapped him and lapped him round with clearer cold,     And all the rippling green grew royal gold     Between him and the far suns rising rim.     And like the sun his heart rejoiced in him,     And brightened with a broadening flame of mirth:     And hardly seemed its life a part of earth,     But the life kindled of a fiery birth     And passion of a new-begotten son     Between the live sea and the living sun.     And mightier grew the joy to meet full-faced     Each wave, and mount with upward plunge, and taste     The rapture of its rolling strength, and cross     Its flickering crown of snows that flash and toss     Like plumes in battles blithest charge, and thence     To match the next with yet more strenuous sense;     Till on his eyes the light beat hard and bade     His face turn west and shoreward through the glad     Swift revel of the waters golden-clad,     And back with light reluctant heart he bore     Across the broad-backed rollers in to shore;     Strong-spirited for the chance and cheer of fight,     And donned his arms again, and felt the might     In all his limbs rejoice for strength, and praised     God for such life as that whereon he gazed,     And wist not surely its joy was even as fleet     As that which laughed and lapsed against his feet,     The bright thin grey foam-blossom, glad and hoar,     That flings its flower along the flowerless shore     On sand or shingle, and still with sweet strange snows,     As where one great white storm-dishevelled rose     May rain her wild leaves on a windy land,     Strews for long leagues the sounding slope of strand,     And flower on flower falls flashing, and anew     A fresh light leaps up whence the last flash flew,     And casts its brief glad gleam of life away     To fade not flowerwise but as drops the day     Storm-smitten, when at once the dark devours     Heaven and the sea and earth with all their flowers;     No star in heaven, on earth no rose to see,     But the white blown brief blossoms of the sea,     That make her green gloom starrier than the sky,     Dance yet before the tempests tune, and die.     And all these things he glanced upon, and knew     How fair they shone, from earths least flake of dew     To stretch of seas and imminence of skies,     Unwittingly, with unpresageful eyes,     For the last time. The worlds half heavenly face,     The music of the silence of the place,     The confluence and the refluence of the sea,     The winds note ringing over wold and lea,     Smote once more through him keen as fire that smote,     Rang once more through him one reverberate note,     That faded as he turned again and went,     Fulfilled by strenuous joy with strong content,     To take his last delight of labour done     That yet should be beholden of the sun     Or ever give man comfort of his hand.     Beside a woods edge in the broken land     An hour at wait the twain together stood,     Till swift between the moorside and the wood     Flashed the spears forward of the coming train;     And seeing beside the strong chief spoilers rein     His wan love riding prisoner in the crew,     Forth with a cry the young man leapt, and flew     Right on that felon sudden as a flame;     And hard at hand the mightier Tristram came,     Bright as the sun and terrible as fire:     And there had sword and spear their souls desire,     And blood that quenched the spears thirst as it poured     Slaked royally the hunger of the sword,     Till the fierce heart of steel could scarce fulfil     Its greed and ravin of insatiate will.     For three the fiery spear of Tristram drove     Down ere a point of theirs his harness clove     Or its own sheer mid shaft splintered in twain;     And his heart bounded in him, and was fain     As fire or wind that takes its fill by night     Of tempest and of triumph: so the knight     Rejoiced and ranged among them, great of hand,     Till seven lay slain upon the heathery sand     Or in the dense breadth of the woodside fern.     Nor did his heart not mightier in him burn     Seeing at his hand that young knight fallen, and high     The red sword reared again that bade him die.     But on the slayer exulting like the flame     Whose foot foreshines the thunder Tristram came     Raging, for piteous wrath had made him fire;     And as a lions look his face was dire     That flashed against his foeman ere the sword     Lightened, and wrought the hearts will of its lord,     And clove through casque and crown the wrongdoers head.     And right and left about their dark chief dead     Hurtled and hurled those felons to and fro,     Till as a storm-wind scatters leaves and snow     His right hand ravening scattered them; but one     That fled with sidelong glance athwart the sun     Shot, and the shaft flew sure, and smote aright,     Full in the wounds print of his great first fight     When at his young strengths peril he made free     Cornwall, and slew beside its bordering sea     The fair lands foe, who yielding up his breath     Yet left him wounded nigh to dark slow death.     And hardly with long toil thence he won home     Between the grey moor and the glimmering foam,     And halting fared through his own gate, and fell,     Thirsting: for as the sleepless fire of hell     The fire within him of his wound again     Burned, and his face was dark as death for pain,     And blind the blithe light of his eyes: but they     Within that watched and wist not of the fray     Came forth and cried aloud on him for woe.     And scarce aloud his thanks fell faint and slow     As men reared up the strong man fallen and bore     Down the deep hall that looked along the shore,     And laid him soft abed, and sought in vain     If herb or hand of leech might heal his pain.     And the white-handed Iseult hearkening heard     All, and drew nigh, and spake no wifely word,     But gazed upon him doubtfully, with eyes     Clouded; and he in kindly knightly wise     Spake with scant breath, and smiling: Surely this     Is penance for discourteous lips to kiss     And feel the brand burn through them, here to lie     And lack the strength here to do more than sigh     And hope not hence for pardon. Then she bowed     Her head, still silent as a stooping cloud,     And laid her lips against his face; and he     Felt sink a shadow across him as the sea     Might feel a cloud stoop toward it: and his heart     Darkened as one that wastes by sorcerous art     And knows not whence it withers: and he turned     Back from her emerald eyes his own, and yearned     All night for eyes all golden: and the dark     Hung sleepless round him till the loud first lark     Rang record forth once more of darkness done,     And all things born took comfort from the sun.