Of an insensate ocean on those rocks
Whereon he had a mind to throw himself.
“My God! If I were dreaming this,” he said,
“My sleep would be a penance for a year.
But I am neither dead nor dreaming now,
I’m living and awake. If this be life,
What a soul-healing difference death must be,
Being something else . . . Isolt! Isolt of Ireland!”
Whereon he had a mind to throw himself.
“My God! If I were dreaming this,” he said,
“My sleep would be a penance for a year.
But I am neither dead nor dreaming now,
I’m living and awake. If this be life,
What a soul-healing difference death must be,
Being something else . . . Isolt! Isolt of Ireland!”
Gazing at emptiness for a long time
He looked away from life, and scarcely heard,
Coming down slowly towards him from above,
A troubling sound of cloth. “Good evening, sir,
Perhaps you do not know me, or remember
That once you gave a lady so much honor
As to acknowledge her obscure existence.
From late accounts you are not here to know
Your friends on this especial famous evening.
Why do you stay away from history
Like this? Kings are not married every night.”
He looked away from life, and scarcely heard,
Coming down slowly towards him from above,
A troubling sound of cloth. “Good evening, sir,
Perhaps you do not know me, or remember
That once you gave a lady so much honor
As to acknowledge her obscure existence.
From late accounts you are not here to know
Your friends on this especial famous evening.
Why do you stay away from history
Like this? Kings are not married every night.”
Perceiving there beside him a slim figure
Provisionally cloaked against the cold,
Provisionally cloaked against the cold,
[ 29 ]
