“And Iseult rose up where she sat apart,And with her sweet soul deepening her deep eyesCast the furs from her and subtle embroideriesThat wrapped her from the storming rain and spray,And shining like all April in one day,Hair, face, and throat dashed with the straying showers,She stood the first of all the whole world's flowers,And laughed on Tristram with her eyes, and said,"I too have heart then, I was not afraid."And answering some light courteous word of graceHe saw her clear face lighten on his faceUnwittingly, with unenamoured eyesFor the last time.”

“And her heart sprang in Iseult, and she drewWith all her spirit and life the sunrise throughAnd through her lips the keen triumphant airSea-scented, sweeter than land-roses were,And through her eyes the whole rejoicing eastSun-satisfied, and all the heaven at feastSpread for the morning; and the imperious mirthOf wind and light that moved upon the earth,Making the spring, and all the fruitful mightAnd strong regeneration of delightThat swells the seedling leaf and sapling man,Since the first life in the first world beganTo burn and burgeon through void limbs and veins,And the first love with sharp sweet procreant painsTo pierce and bring forth roses; yea, she feltThrough her own soul the sovereign morning melt,And all the sacred passion of the sun;And as the young clouds flamed and were undoneAbout him coming, touched and burnt awayIn rosy ruin and yellow spoil of day,The sweet veil of her body and corporal senseFelt the dawn also cleave it, and incenseWith light from inward and with effluent heatThe kindling soul through fleshly hands and feet.And as the august great blossom of the dawnBurst, and the full sun scarce from sea withdrawnSeemed on the fiery water a flower afloat,So as a fire the mighty morning smoteThroughout her, and incensed with the influent hourHer whole soul's one great mystical red flowerBurst, and the bud of her sweet spirit brokeRose-fashion, and the strong spring at a strokeThrilled, and was cloven, and from the full sheath cameThe whole rose of the woman red as flame:And all her Mayday blood as from a swoonFlushed, and May rose up in her and was June.So for a space her hearth as heavenward burned:Then with half summer in her eyes she turned,And on her lips was April yet, and smiled,As though the spirit and sense unreconciledShrank laughing back, and would not ere its hourLet life put forth the irrevocable flower.And the soft speech between them grew again”

“Lying asleep between the strokes of nightI saw my love lean over my sad bed,Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,But perfect-coloured without white or red.And her lips opened amorously, and said--I wist not what, saving one word--Delight. And all her face was honey to my mouth,And all her body pasture to my eyes;The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighsAnd glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.”

“She might come in to bride-bed: and he laughed,As one that wist not well of wise love's craft,And bade all bridal things be as she would.Yet of his gentleness he gat not good;For clothed and covered with the nuptial darkSoft like a bride came Brangwain to King Mark,And to the queen came Tristram; and the night Fled, and ere danger of detective lightFrom the king sleeping Brangwain slid away,And where had lain her handmaid Iseult lay.And the king waking saw beside his headThat face yet passion-coloured, amorous redFrom lips not his, and all that strange hair shedAcross the tissued pillows, fold on fold,Innumerable, incomparable, all gold,To fire men's eyes with wonder, and with loveMen's hearts; so shone its flowering crown aboveThe brows enwound with that imperial wreath,And framed with fragrant radiance round the face beneath.And the king marvelled, seeing with sudden startHer very glory, and said out of his heart;"What have I done of good for God to blessThat all this he should give me, tress on tress,All this great wealth and wondrous? Was it thisThat in mine arms I had all night to kiss,And mix with me this beauty? this that seemsMore fair than heaven doth in some tired saint's dreams,Being part of that same heaven? yea, more, for he,Though loved of God so, yet but seems to see,But to me sinful such great grace is givenThat in mine hands I hold this part of heaven,Not to mine eyes lent merely. Doth God makeSuch things so godlike for man's mortal sake?Have I not sinned, that in this fleshly lifeHave made of her a mere man's very wife?”

“So Tristram looked on Iseult face to faceand knew not, and she knew not. The last time --The last that should be told in any rhymeHeard anywhere on mouths of singing menThat ever should sing praise of them again;The last hour of their hurtless hearts at rest,The last that peace should touch them, breast to breast,The last that sorrow far from them should sit,This last was with them, and they knew not it.”

“I will go back to the great sweet mother,Mother and lover of men, the sea.I will go down to her, I and none other,Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me.Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast;O fair white mother, in days long passedBorn without sister, born without brother,Set free my soul as thy soul is free.”

“To fill the days up of his dateless yearFlame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere?For first of all the sphery signs wherebyLove severs light from darkness, and most high,In the white front of January there glowsThe rose-red sign of Helen like a rose:And gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterlessWhereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitterness,A storm-star that the seafarers of loveStrain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of,Shoots keen through February's grey frost and dampThe lamplike star of Hero for a lamp;The star that Marlowe sang into our skiesWith mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes;And in clear March across the rough blue seaThe signal sapphire of AlcyoneMakes bright the blown bross of the wind-foot year;And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tearFull ere it fall, the fair next sign in sightBurns opal-wise with April-coloured lightWhen air is quick with song and rain and flame,My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath nameIseult, a light of blossom and beam and shower,My singing sign that makes the song-tree flower;Next like a pale and burning pearl beyondThe rose-white sphere of flower-named RosamondSigns the sweet head of Maytime; and for JuneFlares like an angered and storm-reddening moonHer signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyreShadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire;Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth-stone,A star south-risen that first to music shone,The keen girl-star of golden Juliet bearsLight northward to the month whose forehead wearsHer name for flower upon it, and his treesMix their deep English song with Veronese;And like an awful sovereign chrysoliteBurning, the supreme fire that blinds the night,The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars,A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of stars,The light of Cleopatra fills and burnsThe hollow of heaven whence ardent August yearns;And fixed and shining as the sister-shedSweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead,The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured sphere,That through September sees the saddening yearAs love sees change through sorrow, hath to nameFrancesca's; and the star that watches flameThe embers of the harvest overgoneIs Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon,Set in the golden girdle of sweet signsA blood-bright ruby; last save one light shinesAn eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras,The star that made men mad, Angelica's; And latest named and lordliest, with a soundOf swords and harps in heaven that ring it round,Last love-light and last love-song of the year's,Gleams like a glorious emerald Guenevere's.”