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FATE, that was born ere spirit and flesh were made, The fire that fills man’s life with light and shade; The power beyond all godhead which puts on All forms of multitudinous unison, A raiment of eternal change inwrought With shapes and hues more subtly spun than thought, Where all things old bear fruit of all things new And one deep chord throbs all the music through, The chord of change unchanging, shadow and light Inseparable as reverberate day from night; Fate, that of all things save the soul of man Is lord and God since body and soul began; Fate, that keeps all the tune of things in chime; Fate, that breathes power upon the lips of time; That smites and soothes with heavy and healing hand All joys and sorrows born in life’s dim land, Till joy be found a shadow and sorrow a breath And life no discord in the tune with death, But all things fain alike to die and live In pulse and lapse of tides alternative, Through silence and through sound of peace and strife, Till birth and death be one in sight of life; Fate, heard and seen of no man’s eyes or ears, To no man shown through light of smiles or tears, And moved of no man’s prayer to fold its wings; Fate, that is night and light on worldly things; Fate, that is fire to burn and sea to drown, Strength to build up and thunder to cast down; Fate, shield and screen for each man’s lifelong head, And sword at last or dart that strikes it dead; Fate, higher than heaven and deeper than the grave, That saves and spares not, spares and doth not save; Fate, that in gods’ wise is not bought and sold For prayer or price of penitence or gold; Whose law shall live when life bids earth farewell, Whose justice hath for shadows heaven and hell; Whose judgment into no god’s hand is given, Nor is its doom not more than hell or heaven: Fate, that is pure of love and clean of hate, Being equal-eyed as nought may be but fate; Through many and weary days of foiled desire Leads life to rest where tears no more take fire; Through many and weary dreams of quenched delight Leads life through death past sense of day and night. Nor shall they feel or fear, whose date is done, Aught that made once more dark the living sun And bitterer in their breathing lips the breath Than the dark dawn and bitter dust of death. For all the light, with fragrance as of flowers, That clothes the lithe live limbs of separate hours, More sweet to savour and more clear to sight Dawns on the soul death’s undivided night. No vigils has that perfect night to keep, No fever-fits of vision shake that sleep. Nor if they wake, and any place there be Wherein the soul may feel her wings beat free Through air too clear and still for sound or strife If life were haply death, and death be life; If love with yet some lovelier laugh revive, And song relume the light it bore alive, And friendship, found of all earth’s gifts most good, Stand perfect in perpetual brotherhood; If aught indeed at all of all this be, Though none might say nor any man might see, Might he that sees the shade thereof not say This dream were trustier than the truth of day. Nor haply may not hope, with heart more clear, Burn deathward, and the doubtful soul take cheer, Seeing through the channelled darkness yearn a star Whose eyebeams are not as the morning’s are, Transient, and subjugate of lordlier light, But all unconquerable by noon or night, Being kindled only of life’s own inmost fire, Truth, stablished and made sure by strong desire, Fountain of all things living, source and seed, Force that perforce transfigures dream to deed, God that begets on time, the body of death, Eternity: nor may man’s darkening breath, Albeit it stain, disfigure or destroy The glass wherein the soul sees life and joy Only, with strength renewed and spirit of youth, And brighter than the sun’s the body of Truth Eternal, unimaginable of man, Whose very face not Thought’s own eyes may scan, But see far off his radiant feet at least, Trampling the head of Fear, the false high priest, Whose broken chalice foams with blood no more, And prostrate on that high priest’s chancel floor, Bruised, overthrown, blind, maimed, with bloodless rod, The miscreation of his miscreant God. That sovereign shadow cast of souls that dwell In darkness and the prison-house of hell Whose walls are built of deadly dread, and bound The gates thereof with dreams as iron round, And all the bars therein and stanchions wrought Of shadow forged like steel and tempered thought And words like swords and thunder-clouded creeds And faiths more dire than sin’s most direful deeds: That shade accursed and worshipped, which hath made The soul of man that brought it forth a shade Black as the womb of darkness, void and vain, A throne for fear, a pasturage for pain, Impotent, abject, clothed upon with lies, A foul blind fume of words and prayers that rise, Aghast and harsh, abhorrent and abhorred, Fierce as its God, blood-saturate as its Lord; With loves and mercies on its lips that hiss Comfort, and kill compassion with a kiss, And strike the world black with their blasting breath; That ghost whose core of life is very death And all its light of heaven a shadow of hell, Fades, falls, wanes, withers by none other spell But theirs whose eyes and ears have seen and heard Not the face naked, not the perfect word, But the bright sound and feature felt from far Of life which feeds the spirit and the star, Thrills the live light of all the suns that roll, And stirs the still sealed springs of every soul. Three dim days through, three slumberless nights long, Perplexed at dawn, oppressed at evensong, The strong man’s soul now sealed indeed with pain, And all its springs half dried with drought, had lain Prisoner within the fleshly dungeon-dress Sore chafed and wasted with its weariness. And fain it would have found the star, and fain Made this funereal prison-house of pain A watch-tower whence its eyes might sweep, and see If any place for any hope might be Beyond the hells and heavens of sleep and strife, Or any light at all of any life Beyond the dense false darkness woven above, And could not, lacking grace to look on love, And in the third night’s dying hour he spake, Seeing scarce the seals that bound the dayspring break And scarce the daystar burn above the sea: “O Ganhardine, my brother true to me, I charge thee by those nights and days we knew No great while since in England, by the dew That bathed those nights with blessing, and the fire That thrilled those days as music thrills a lyre, Do now for me perchance the last good deed That ever love may crave or life may need Ere love lay life in ashes: take to thee My ship that shows aloft against the sea Carved on her stem the semblance of a swan, And ere the waves at even again wax wan Pass, if it may be, to my lady’s land, And give this ring into her secret hand, And bid her think how hard on death I lie, And fain would look upon her face and die. But as a merchant’s laden be the bark With royal ware for fraughtage, that King Mark May take for toll thereof some costly thing; And when this gift finds grace before the king, Choose forth a cup, and put therein my ring Where sureliest only of one it may be seen, And bid her handmaid bear it to the queen For earnest of thine homage: then shall she Fear, and take counsel privily with thee, To know what errand there is thine from me And what my need in secret of her sight. But make thee two sails, one like sea-foam white To spread for signal if thou bring her back, And if she come not see the sail be black, That I may know or ever thou take land If these my lips may die upon her hand Or hers may never more be mixed with mine.” And his heart quailed for grief in Ganhardine, Hearing; and all his brother bade he swore Surely to do, and straight fare forth from shore. But the white-handed Iseult hearkening heard All, and her heart waxed hot, and every word Thereon seemed graven and printed in her thought As lines with fire and molten iron wrought. And hard within her heavy heart she cursed Both, and her life was turned to fiery thirst, And all her soul was hunger, and its breath Of hope and life a blast of raging death. For only in hope of evil was her life. So bitter burned within the unchilded wife A virgin lust for vengeance, and such hate Wrought in her now the fervent work of fate. Then with a south-west wind the Swan set forth, And over wintering waters bore to north, And round the wild land’s windy westward end Up the blown channel bade her bright way bend East on toward high Tintagel: where at dark Landing, fair welcome found they of King Mark, And Ganhardine with Brangwain as of old Spake, and she took the cup of chiselled gold Wherein lay secret Tristram’s trothplight ring, And bare it unbeholden of the king Even to her lady’s hand, which hardly took A gift whereon a queen’s eyes well might look, With grace forlorn of weary gentleness. But, seeing, her life leapt in her, keen to guess The secret of the symbol: and her face Flashed bright with blood whence all its grief-worn grace Took fire and kindled to the quivering hair. And in the dark soft hour of starriest air Thrilled through with sense of midnight, when the world Feels the wide wings of sleep about it furled, Down stole the queen, deep-muffled to her wan Mute restless lips, and came where yet the Swan Swung fast at anchor: whence by starlight she Hoised snowbright sails, and took the glimmering sea. But all the long night long more keen and sore His wound’s grief waxed in Tristram evermore, And heavier always hung his heart asway Between dim fear and clouded hope of day. And still with face and heart at silent strife Beside him watched the maiden called his wife, Patient, and spake not save when scarce he spake, Murmuring with sense distraught and spirit awake Speech bitterer than the words thereof were sweet: And hatred thrilled her to the hands and feet, Listening: for alway back reiterate came The passionate faint burden of her name. Nor ever through the labouring lips astir Came any word of any thought of her. But the soul wandering struggled and clung hard Only to dreams of joy in Joyous Gard Or wildwood nights beside the Cornish strand, Or Merlin’s holier sleep here hard at hand Wrapped round with deep soft spells in dim Broceliande. And with such thirst as joy’s drained wine-cup leaves When fear to hope as hope to memory cleaves His soul desired the dewy sense of leaves, The soft green smell of thickets drenched with dawn. The faint slot kindling on the fiery lawn As day’s first hour made keen the spirit again That lured and spurred on quest his hound Hodain, The breeze, the bloom, the splendour and the sound, That stung like fire the hunter and the hound, The pulse of wind, the passion of the sea, The rapture of the woodland: then would he Sigh, and as one that fain would all be dead Heavily turn his heavy-laden head Back, and close eyes for comfort, finding none. And fain he would have died or seen the sun, Being sick at heart of darkness: yet afresh Began the long strong strife of spirit and flesh And branching pangs of thought whose branches bear The bloodred fruit whose core is black, despair. And the wind slackened and again grew great, Palpitant as men’s pulses palpitate Between the flowing and ebbing tides of fate That wash their lifelong waifs of weal and woe Through night and light and twilight to and fro. Now as a pulse of hope its heartbeat throbbed, Now like one stricken shrank and sank and sobbed, Then, yearning as with child of death, put forth A wail that filled the night up south and north With woful sound of waters: and he said, “So might the wind wail if the world were dead And its wings wandered over nought but sea. I would I knew she would not come to me, For surely she will come not: then should I, Once knowing I shall not look upon her, die. I knew not life could so long breathe such breath As I do. Nay, what grief were this, if death, The sole sure friend of whom the whole world saith He lies not, nor hath ever this been said, That death would heal not grief—if death were dead And all ways closed whence grief might pass with life!” Then softly spake his watching virgin wife Out of her heart, deep down below her breath: “Fear not but death shall come—and after death Judgment.” And he that heard not answered her, Saying—“Ah, but one there was, if truth not err, For true men’s trustful tongues have said it—one Whom these mine eyes knew living while the sun Looked yet upon him, and mine own ears heard The deep sweet sound once of his godlike word Who sleeps and dies not, but with soft live breath Takes always all the deep delight of death, Through love’s gift of a woman: but for me Love’s hand is not the hand of Nimue, Love’s word no still smooth murmur of the dove, No kiss of peace for me the kiss of love. Nor, whatsoe’er thy life’s love ever give, Dear, shall it ever bid me sleep or live; Nor from thy brows and lips and living breast As his from Nimue’s shall my soul take rest; Not rest but unrest hath our long love given— Unrest on earth that wins not rest in heaven. What rest may we take ever? what have we Had ever more of peace than has the sea? Has not our life been as a wind that blows Through lonelier lands than rear the wild white rose That each year sees requickened, but for us Time once and twice hath here or there done thus And left the next year following empty and bare? What rose hath our last year’s rose left for heir, What wine our last year’s vintage? and to me More were one fleet forbidden sense of thee, One perfume of thy present grace, one thought Made truth one hour, ere all mine hours be nought, One very word, breath, look, sign, touch of hand, Than all the green leaves in Broceliande Full of sweet sound, full of sweet wind and sun; O God, thou knowest I would no more but one, I would no more but once more ere I die Find thus much mercy. Nay, but then were I Happier than he whom there thy grace hath found, For thine it must be, this that wraps him round, Thine only, albeit a fiend’s force gave him birth, Thine that has given him heritage on earth Of slumber-sweet eternity to keep Fast in soft hold of everliving sleep. Happier were I, more sinful man, than he, Whom one love-worthier then than Nimue Should with a breath make blest among the dead.” And the wan wedded maiden answering said, Soft as hate speaks within itself apart: “Surely ye shall not, ye that rent mine heart, Being one in sin, in punishment be twain.” And the great knight that heard not spake again And sighed, but sweet thought of sweet things gone by Kindled with fire of joy the very sigh And touched it through with rapture: “Ay, this were How much more than the sun and sunbright air, How much more than the springtide, how much more Than sweet strong sea-wind quickening wave and shore With one divine pulse of continuous breath, If she might kiss me with the kiss of death, And make the light of life by death’s look dim!” And the white wedded virgin answered him, Inwardly, wan with hurt no herb makes whole: “Yea surely, ye whose sin hath slain my soul, Surely your own souls shall have peace in death And pass with benediction in their breath And blessing given of mine their sin hath slain.” And Tristram with sore yearning spake again, Saying: “Yea, might this thing once be, how should I, With all my soul made one thanksgiving, die, And pass before what judgment-seat may be, And cry, ‘Lord, now do all thou wilt with me, Take all thy fill of justice, work thy will; Though all thy heart of wrath have all its fill, My heart of suffering shall endure, and say, For that thou gavest me living yesterday I bless thee though thou curse me.” Ay, and well Might one cast down into the gulf of hell, Remembering this, take heart and thank his fate— That God, whose doom now scourges him with hate Once, in the wild and whirling world above, Bade mercy kiss his dying lips with love. But if this come not, then he doth me wrong. For what hath love done, all this long life long That death should trample down his poor last prayer Who prays not for forgiveness? Though love were Sin dark as hate, have we not here that sinned Suffered? has that been less than wintry wind Wherewith our love lies blasted? O mine own, O mine and no man’s yet save mine alone, Iseult! what ails thee that I lack so long All of thee, all things thine for which I long? For more than watersprings to shadeless sands, More to me were the comfort of her hands Touched once, and more than rays that set and rise The glittering arrows of her glorious eyes, More to my sense than fire to dead cold air The wind and light and odour of her hair, More to my soul than summer’s to the south The mute clear music of her amorous mouth, And to my heart’s heart more than heaven’s great rest The fullness of the fragrance of her breast. Iseult, Iseult, what grace hath life to give More than we twain have had of life, and live? Iseult, Iseult, what grace may death not keep As sweet for us to win of death, and sleep? Come therefore, let us twain pass hence and try If it be better not to live but die, With love for lamp to light us out of life.” And on that word his wedded maiden wife, Pale as the moon in star-forsaken skies Ere the sun fill them, rose with set strange eyes And gazed on him that saw not: and her heart Heaved as a man’s death-smitten with a dart That smites him sleeping, warm and full of life: So toward her lord that was not looked his wife, His wife that was not: and her heart within Burnt bitter like an aftertaste of sin To one whose memory drinks and loathes the lee Of shame or sorrow deeper than the sea: And no fear touched him of her eyes above And ears that hoarded each poor word whence love Made sweet the broken music of his breath. “Iseult, my life that wast and art my death, My life in life that hast been, and that art Death in my death, sole wound that cleaves mine heart, Mine heart that else, how spent soe’er, were whole, Breath of my spirit and anguish of my soul, How can this be that hence thou canst not hear, Being but by space divided? One is here, But one of twain I looked at once to see; Shall death keep time and thou not keep with me?” And the white married maiden laughed at heart, Hearing, and scarce with lips at all apart Spake, and as fire between them was her breath; “Yea, now thou liest not: yea, for I am death.” By this might eyes that watched without behold Deep in the gulfs of aching air acold The roses of the dawning heaven that strew The low soft sun’s way ere his power shine through And burn them up with fire: but far to west Had sunk the dead moon on the live sea’s breast, Slain as with bitter fear to see the sun: And eastward was a strong bright wind begun Between the clouds and waters: and he said, Seeing hardly through dark dawn her doubtful head, “Iseult?” and like a death-bell faint and clear The virgin voice rang answer—“I am here.” And his heart sprang, and sank again: and she Spake, saying, “What would my knightly lord with me?” And Tristram: “Hath my lady watched all night Beside me, and I knew not? God requite Her love for comfort shown a man nigh dead.” “Yea, God shall surely guerdon it,” she said, “Who hath kept me all my days through to this hour.” And Tristram: “God alone hath grace and power To pay such grace toward one unworthier shown Than ever durst, save only of God alone, Crave pardon yet and comfort, as I would Crave now for charity if my heart were good, But as a coward’s it fails me, even for shame.” Then seemed her face a pale funereal flame That burns down slow by midnight, as she said: “Speak, and albeit thy bidding spake me dead, God’s love renounce me if it were not done.” And Tristram: “When the sea-line takes the sun That now should be not far off sight from far, Look if there come not with the morning star My ship bound hither from the northward back, And if the sail be white thereof or black.” And knowing the soothfast sense of his desire So sore the heart within her raged like fire She could not wring forth of her lips a word, But bowing made sign how humbly had she heard. And the sign given made light his heart; and she Set her face hard against the yearning sea Now all athirst with trembling trust of hope To see the sudden gates of sunrise ope; But thirstier yearned the heart whose fiery gate Lay wide that vengeance might come in to hate. And Tristram lay at thankful rest, and thought Now surely life nor death could grieve him aught, Since past was now life’s anguish as a breath, And surely past the bitterness of death. For seeing he had found at these her hands this grace, It could not be but yet some breathing-space Might leave him life to look again on love’s own face. “Since if for death’s sake,” in his heart he said, “Even she take pity upon me quick or dead, How shall not even from God’s hand be compassion shed? For night bears dawn, how weak soe’er and wan, And sweet ere death, men fable, sings the swan. So seems the Swan my signal from the sea To sound a song that sweetens death to me Clasped round about with radiance from above Of dawn, and closer clasped on earth by love. Shall all things brighten, and this my sign be dark?” And high from heaven suddenly rang the lark, Triumphant; and the far first refluent ray Filled all the hollow darkness full with day. And on the deep sky’s verge a fluctuant light Gleamed, grew, shone, strengthened into perfect sight, As bowed and dipped and rose again the sail’s clear white. And swift and steadfast as a sea-mew’s wing It neared before the wind, as fain to bring Comfort, and shorten yet its narrowing track. And she that saw looked hardly toward him back, Saying, “Ay, the ship comes surely; but her sail is black.” And fain he would have sprung upright, and seen, And spoken: but strong death struck sheer between, And darkness closed as iron round his head: And smitten through the heart lay Tristram dead. And scarce the word had flown abroad, and wail Risen, ere to shoreward came the snowbright sail, And lightly forth leapt Ganhardine on land, And led from ship with swift and reverent hand Iseult: and round them up from all the crowd Broke the great wail for Tristram out aloud. And ere her ear might hear her heart had heard, Nor sought she sign for witness of the word; But came and stood above him newly dead, And felt his death upon her: and her head Bowed, as to reach the spring that slakes all drouth; And their four lips became one silent mouth. So came their hour on them that were in life Tristram and Iseult: so from love and strife The stroke of love’s own hand felt last and best Gave them deliverance to perpetual rest. So, crownless of the wreaths that life had wound, They slept, with flower of tenderer comfort crowned; From bondage and the fear of time set free, And all the yoke of space on earth and sea Cast as a curb for ever: nor might now Fear and desire bid soar their souls or bow, Lift up their hearts or break them: doubt nor grief More now might move them, dread nor disbelief Touch them with shadowy cold or fiery sting, Nor sleepless languor with its weary wing, Nor harsh estrangement, born of time’s vain breath, Nor change, a darkness deeper far than death. And round the sleep that fell around them then Earth lies not wrapped, nor records wrought of men Rise up for timeless token: but their sleep Hath round it like a raiment all the deep; No change or gleam or gloom of sun and rain, But all time long the might of all the main Spread round them as round earth soft heaven is spread, And peace more strong than death round all the dead. For death is of an hour, and after death Peace: nor for aught that fear or fancy saith, Nor even for very love’s own sake, shall strife Perplex again that perfect peace with life. And if, as men that mourn may deem or dream, Rest haply here than there might sweeter seem, And sleep, that lays one hand on all, more good By some sweet grave’s grace given of wold or wood Or clear high glen or sunbright wind-worn down Than where life thunders through the trampling town With daylong feet and nightlong overhead, What grave may cast such grace round any dead, What so sublime sweet sepulchre may be For all that life leaves mortal, as the sea? And these, rapt forth perforce from earthly ground, These twain the deep sea guards, and girdles round Their sleep more deep than any sea’s gulf lies, Though changeless with the change in shifting skies, Nor mutable with seasons: for the grave That held them once, being weaker than a wave, The waves long since have buried: though their tomb Was royal that by ruth’s relenting doom Men gave them in Tintagel: for the word Took wing which thrilled all piteous hearts that heard The word wherethrough their lifelong lot stood shown, And when the long sealed springs of fate were known, The blind bright innocence of lips that quaffed Love, and the marvel of the mastering draught, And all the fraughtage of the fateful bark, Loud like a child upon them wept King Mark, Seeing round the sword’s hilt which long since had fought For Cornwall’s love a scroll of writing wrought, A scripture writ of Tristram’s hand, wherein Lay bare the sinless source of all their sin, No choice of will, but chance and sorcerous art, With prayer of him for pardon: and his heart Was molten in him, wailing as he kissed Each with the kiss of kinship—“Had I wist, Ye had never sinned nor died thus, nor had I Borne in this doom that bade you sin and die So sore a part of sorrow.” And the king Built for their tomb a chapel bright like spring With flower-soft wealth of branching tracery made Fair as the frondage each fleet year sees fade, That should not fall till many a year were done. There slept they wedded under moon and sun And change of stars: and through the casements came Midnight and noon girt round with shadow and flame To illume their grave or veil it: till at last On these things too was doom as darkness cast: For the strong sea hath swallowed wall and tower, And where their limbs were laid in woful hour For many a fathom gleams and moves and moans The tide that sweeps above their coffined bones In the wrecked chancel by the shivered shrine: Nor where they sleep shall moon or sunlight shine Nor man look down for ever: none shall say, Here once, or here, Tristram and Iseult lay: But peace they have that none may gain who live, And rest about them that no love can give, And over them, while death and life shall be, The light and sound and darkness of the sea. |