Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/60

 No mortal music made of thoughts and tears, But such a song, past conscience of man's thought, As hearing he grows god and knows it not. Nought else they saw nor heard but what the night Had left for seal upon their sense and sight, Sound of past pulses beating, fire of amorous light. Enough, and overmuch, and never yet Enough, though love still hungering feed and fret, To fill the cup of night which dawn must overset. For still their eyes were dimmer than with tears And dizzier from diviner sounds their ears Than though from choral thunders of the quiring spheres. They heard not how the landward waters rang, Nor saw where high into the morning sprang, Riven from the shore and bastioned with the sea, Toward summits where the north wind's nest might be, A wave-walled palace with its eastern gate Full of the sunrise now and wide at wait, And on the mighty-moulded stairs that clomb Sheer from the fierce lip of the lapping foam The knights of Mark that stood before the wall. So with loud joy and storm of festival They brought the bride in up the towery way That rose against the rising front of day, Stair based on stair, between the rocks unhewn, To those strange halls wherethrough the tidal tune Rang loud or lower from soft or strengthening sea, Tower shouldering tower, to windward and to lee,