Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/192

154 Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side,

Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide,

Nor to the snow, which, though 'twas all away

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.

And they would still have listened, till dark night

Came keen and chill down on the heather bright;

But when the red glow on the sea grew cold,

And the gray turrets of the castle old

Looked sternly through the frosty evening-air,

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

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,

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.

And now she will go home, and softly lay

Her laughing children in their beds, and play

A while with them before they sleep; and then

She'll light her silver lamp,—which fishermen

Dragging their nets through the rough waves afar,

Along this iron coast, know like a star,—