Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/185

 For death is of an hour, and after death Peace: nor for aught that fear or fancy saith, Nor even for very love's own sake, shall strife Perplex again that perfect peace with life. And if, as men that mourn may deem or dream, Rest haply here than there might sweeter seem, And sleep, that lays one hand on all, more good By some sweet grave's grace given of wold or wood Or clear high glen or sunbright wind-worn down Than where life thunders through the trampling town With daylong feet and nightlong overhead, What grave may cast such grace round any dead, What so sublime sweet sepulchre may be For all that life leaves mortal, as the sea? And these, rapt forth perforce from earthly ground, These twain the deep sea guards, and girdles round Their sleep more deep than any sea's gulf lies, Though changeless with the change in shifting skies, Nor mutable with seasons: for the grave That held them once, being weaker than a wave, The waves long since have buried: though their tomb Was royal that by ruth's relenting doom Men gave them in Tintagel: for the word Took wing which thrilled all piteous hearts that heard The word wherethrough their lifelong lot stood shown, And when the long sealed springs of fate were known, The blind bright innocence of lips that quaffed Love, and the marvel of the mastering draught,