Tristram.  I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage—­
  Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. 
But thy dark eyes are not dimm’d, proud Iseult! 
  And thy beauty never was more fair. 20

Iseult.  Ah, harsh flatterer! let alone my beauty! 
  I, like thee, have left my youth afar. 
Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers—­
  See my cheek and lips, how white they are!

Tristram.  Thou art paler—­but thy sweet charm, Iseult! 25
  Would not fade with the dull years away. 
Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight! 
  I forgive thee, Iseult!—­thou wilt stay?

Iseult.  Fear me not, I will be always with thee;
  I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain; 30
Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers,
  Join’d at evening of their days again.

Tristram.  No, thou shalt not speak!  I should be finding
  Something alter’d in thy courtly tone. 
Sit—­sit by me!  I will think, we’ve lived so 35
  In the green wood, all our lives, alone.

Iseult.  Alter’d, Tristram?  Not in courts, believe me,
  Love like mine is alter’d in the breast;
Courtly life is light and cannot reach it—­
  Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppress’d! 40

What, thou think’st men speak in courtly chambers
  Words by which the wretched are consoled? 
What, thou think’st this aching brow was cooler,
  Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold?

Royal state with Marc, my deep-wrong’d husband—­ 45
  That was bliss to make my sorrows flee! 
Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings deg.—­
  Those were friends to make me false to thee!

Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced,
  Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown—­ 50
Thee, a pining exile in thy forest,
  Me, a smiling queen upon my throne?

Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer’d,
  Both have pass’d a youth consumed and sad,
Both have brought their anxious day to evening, 55
  And have now short space for being glad!

Join’d we are henceforth; nor will thy people,
  Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill,
That a former rival shares her office,
  When she sees her humbled, pale, and still. 60

I, a faded watcher by thy pillow,
  I, a statue on thy chapel-floor,
Pour’d in prayer before the Virgin-Mother,
  Rouse no anger, make no rivals more.

She will cry:  “Is this the foe I dreaded? 65
  This his idol? this that royal bride? 
Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight! 
  Stay, pale queen! for ever by my side.”

Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me. 
  I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. 70
Close thine eyes—­this flooding moonlight blinds them!—­
  Nay, all’s well again! thou must not weep.