Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/131

 That shed but shadowy moonlight where thy face Now sheds forth sunshine in the deep same place, The deep live heart half dead and shallower then Than summer fords which thwart not wandering men. For how should I, signed sorrow's from my birth, Kiss dumb the loud red laughing lips of mirth? Or how, sealed thine to be, love less than heaven on earth? My heart in me was held at restless rest, Presageful of some prize beyond its quest, Prophetic still with promise, fain to find the best. For one was fond and one was blithe and one Fairer than all save twain whose peers are none; For third on earth is none that heaven hath seen To stand with Guenevere beside my queen. Not Nimue, girt with blessing as a guard: Not the soft lures and laughters of Ettarde: Not she, that splendour girdled round with gloom, Crowned as with iron darkness of the tomb, And clothed with clouding conscience of a monstrous doom, Whose blind incestuous love brought forth a fire To burn her ere it burn its darkling sire, Her mother's son, King Arthur: yet but late We saw pass by that fair live shadow of fate, The queen Morgause of Orkney, like a dream That scares the night when moon and starry beam Sicken and swoon before some sorcerer's eyes Whose wordless charms defile the saintly skies, Bright still with fire and pulse of blood and breath, Whom her own sons have doomed for shame to death.'