Of buffeting wind and surging tide
Through many a room and corridor. 
—­Full on their window the moon’s ray
Makes their chamber as bright as day. 
It shines upon the blank white walls, 335
And on the snowy pillow falls,
And on two angel-heads doth play
Turn’d to each other—­the eyes closed,
The lashes on the cheeks reposed. 
Round each sweet brow the cap close-set 340
Hardly lets peep the golden hair;
Through the soft-open’d lips the air
Scarcely moves the coverlet. 
One little wandering arm is thrown
At random on the counterpane, 345
And often the fingers close in haste
As if their baby-owner chased
The butterflies again. 
This stir they have, and this alone; 350
But else they are so still! 
—­Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still;
But were you at the window now,
To look forth on the fairy sight
Of your illumined haunts by night, 355
To see the park-glades where you play
Far lovelier than they are by day,
To see the sparkle on the eaves,
And upon every giant-bough
Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves 360
Are jewell’d with bright drops of rain—­
How would your voices run again! 
And far beyond the sparkling trees
Of the castle-park one sees
The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, 365
Moor behind moor, far, far away,
Into the heart of Brittany. 
And here and there, lock’d by the land,
Long inlets of smooth glittering sea,
And many a stretch of watery sand 370
All shining in the white moon-beams—­
But you see fairer in your dreams!

What voices are these on the clear night-air? 
What lights in the court—­what steps on the stair?

II

ISEULT OF IRELAND deg.

Tristram.  Raise the light, my page! that I may see her.—­
  Thou art come at last, then, haughty Queen! 
Long I’ve waited, long I’ve fought my fever;
  Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been.

Iseult.  Blame me not, poor sufferer! that I tarried; 5
  Bound I was, I could not break the band. 
Chide not with the past, but feel the present! 
  I am here—­we meet—­I hold thy hand.

Tristram.  Thou art come, indeed—­thou hast rejoin’d me;
  Thou hast dared it—­but too late to save. 10
Fear not now that men should tax thine honour! 
  I am dying:  build—­(thou may’st)—­my grave!

Iseult.  Tristram, ah, for love of Heaven, speak kindly! 
  What, I hear these bitter words from thee? 
Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel—­ 15
  Take my hand—­dear Tristram, look on me!