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To whom Isolt,
“Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou
Who brakest thro’ the scruple of my bond,
Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me
That Guinevere had sinned against the highest,
And I–misyoked with such a want of man–
That I could hardly sin against the lowest.”

He answer’d, “O my soul, be comforted!
If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings,
If here be comfort, and if ours be sin,
Crown’d warrant had we for the crowning sin
That made us happy: but how ye greet me–fear
And fault and doubt–no word of that fond tale–
Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories
Of Tristram in that year he was away.”

And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt,
“I had forgotten all in my strong joy
To see thee–yearnings?–ay! for, hour by hour,
Here in the never-ended afternoon,
O sweeter than all memories of thee,
Deeper than any yearnings after thee
Seem’d those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas,
Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash’d
Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand,
Would that have chill’d her bride-kiss? Wedded her?
Fought in her father’s battles? wounded there?
The King was all fulfill’d with gratefulness,
And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal’d
Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress–
Well–can I wish her any huger wrong
Than having known thee? her too hast thou left
To pine and waste in those sweet memories?
O were I not my Mark’s, by whom all men
Are noble, I should hate thee more than love.”

And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied,
“Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well.
Did I love her? the name at least I loved.
Isolt?–I fought his battles, for Isolt!
The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt!
The name was ruler of the dark—-Isolt?
Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek,
Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God.”
And Isolt answer’d, “Yea, and why not I?
Mine is the larger need, who am not meek,
Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now.
Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat
Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where,
Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing,
And once or twice I spake thy name aloud.
Then flash’d a levin-brand; and near me stood,
In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend–
Mark’s way to steal behind one in the dark–
For there was Mark: ‘He has wedded her,’ he said,
Not said, but hiss’d it: then this crown of towers
So shook to such a roar of all the sky,
That here in utter dark I swoon’d away,
And woke again in utter dark, and cried,
‘I will flee hence and give myself to God’–
And thou wert lying in thy new leman’s arms.”

Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand,
“May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray,
And past desire!” a saying that anger’d her.
“‘May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old,
And sweet no more to me!’ I need Him now.
For when had Lancelot utter’d aught so gross
Ev’n to the swineherd’s malkin in the mast?
The greater man, the greater courtesy.
But thou, thro’ ever harrying thy wild beasts–
Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance
Becomes thee well–art grown wild beast thyself.
How darest thou, if lover, push me even
In fancy from thy side, and set me far
In the gray distance, half a life away,
Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear!
Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak,
Broken with Mark and hate and solitude,
Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck
Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe.
Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel,
And solemnly as when ye sware to him,
The man of men, our King–My God, the power
Was once in vows when men believed the King!
They lied not then, who sware, and thro’ their vows
The King prevailing made his realm:–I say,
Swear to me thou wilt love me ev’n when old,
Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair.”