50
From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay,
Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams
Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams,
Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear,
The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. 55
And they would still have listen’d, till dark night
Came keen and chill down on the heather bright;
But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold,
And the grey turrets of the castle old
Look’d sternly through the frosty evening-air, 60
Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair,
And brought her tale to an end, and found the path,
And led them home over the darkening heath.

And is she happy?  Does she see unmoved
The days in which she might have lived and loved 65
Slip without bringing bliss slowly away,
One after one, to-morrow like to-day? 
Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will—­
Is it this thought which, makes her mien so still,
Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, 70
So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet
Her children’s?  She moves slow; her voice alone
Hath yet an infantine and silver tone,
But even that comes languidly; in truth,
She seems one dying in a mask of youth. 75
And now she will go home, and softly lay
Her laughing children in their beds, and play
Awhile with them before they sleep; and then
She’ll light her silver lamp, which fishermen
Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar, 80
Along this iron coast, deg. know like a star, deg. deg.81
And take her broidery-frame, and there she’ll sit
Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it;
Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind
Her children, or to listen to the wind. 85
And when the clock peals midnight, she will move
Her work away, and let her fingers rove
Across the shaggy brows of Tristram’s hound
Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground;
Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes 90
Fixt, her slight hands clasp’d on her lap; then rise,
And at her prie-dieu deg. kneel, until she have told deg.92
Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp’d with gold,
Then to her soft sleep—­and to-morrow’ll be
To-day’s exact repeated effigy. 95

Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. 
The children, and the grey-hair’d seneschal, deg. deg.97
Her women, and Sir Tristram’s aged hound,
Are there the sole companions to be found. 
But these she loves; and noiser life than this 100
She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. 
She has her children, too, and night and day
Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play,