Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/179

 Remembering this, take heart and thank his fate— That God, whose doom now scourges him with hate Once, in the wild and whirling world above, Bade mercy kiss his dying lips with love. But if this come not, then he doth me wrong. For what hath love done, all this long life long That death should trample down his poor last prayer Who prays not for forgiveness? Though love were Sin dark as hate, have we not here that sinned Suffered? has that been less than wintry wind Wherewith our love lies blasted? O mine own, O mine and no man's yet save mine alone, Iseult! what ails thee that I lack so long All of thee, all things thine for which I long? For more than watersprings to shadeless sands, More to me were the comfort of her hands Touched once, and more than rays that set and rise The glittering arrows of her glorious eyes, More to my sense than fire to dead cold air The wind and light and odour of her hair, More to my soul than summer's to the south The mute clear music of her amorous mouth, And to my heart's heart more than heaven's great rest The fullness of the fragrance of her breast. Iseult, Iseult, what grace hath life to give More than we twain have had of life, and live? Iseult, Iseult, what grace may death not keep As sweet for us to win of death, and sleep? Come therefore, let us twain pass hence and try If it be better not to live but die,