Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/172

134 Over the sick man's feet is spread

A dark green forest-dress;

A gold harp leans against the bed,

Ruddy in the fire's light.

I know him by his harp of gold,

Famous in Arthur's court of old;

I know him by his forest-dress,—

The peerless hunter, harper, knight,

Tristram of Lyoness.

What lady is this, whose silk attire

Gleams so rich in the light of the fire?

The ringlets on her shoulders lying

In their flitting lustre vying

With the clasp of burnished gold

Which her heavy robe doth hold.

Her looks are mild, her fingers slight

As the driven snow are white;

But her cheeks are sunk and pale.

Is it that the bleak sea-gale

Beating from the Atlantic sea

On this coast of Brittany,

Nips too keenly the sweet flower?

Is it that a deep fatigue

Hath come on her, a chilly fear,

Passing all her youthful hour

Spinning with her maidens here,

Listlessly through the window-bars

Gazing seawards many a league

From her lonely shore-built tower,

While the knights are at the wars?

Or, perhaps, has her young heart

Felt already some deeper smart,

Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive,