V.

"And I'm like her who trims a flame Of sickly color, bowing low To balk the wind; in wanton game One stoops in secret toward her brow With wind-bulged cheeks, a quick breath sends-- And then the world is blind with gloom, And filled with phantoms and with fiends, That strain huge eyes and jibe her doom." Thus thought Isoud in her despair, Of Launcelot then thoughts grew on, And Arthur's lovely queen away In castled courts of Caerleon, And all their joy and dalliance gay. Until she could have thawed the spars Of her clear-fountained eyes to tears, And gush wild grief long-seared by wars Of passionate anguish and great fears: "Oh Tristram gone! oh death in life!" Soft down below in the thick dark A fountain throbbed monotonous foam, Unseen within the starlit park, Deep in the tower's shadowed dome. "And thus my heart drums frigid life In hateful gloom of fear and woe! One flood of sorrow, cataract-rife, My full-flush heart streams come and go Since Tristram's gone and I'm alone!"