Tristan

                   I

Put it down! I say; put it down,—here, give it to me, I know
     what is in it, you Irish believer in fairies! Here, let me
     smash it
Once and for all,
Against the corner of the wall!
Do we need philtres?

Look at me! Look at me! Then come here.
This fearful thing is pure
That is between us. I want to be sure that nothing drowses it.
     Look at me!
This torture and this rapture will endure.

                   II

I still can see
How you hastily and abstractedly flung down
To the floor,
Having raked it, arm after arm,
Over your head,
Your lustrous gown;
And how, before
Its silken susurration had subsided,
We were as close together as it is possible for two people to be.

It was your maid, I think,
Who picked it up in the morning, while we lay
Still abed, exhausted by inexhaustible love;
I saw her, I saw her through half-closed eyes, kneel above it, 
And smooth it, with a concerned hand, and a face full of 
     thoughtfulness.
Not that the dress
Was fragile,
Or had suffered harm,
But that you had planned
To walk in it, when you walked ashore:
And our ship was getting minute by minute, more and more 
Close to Tintagel.

                   III

There were herbs strown
Over the bed-room floor, alkanet,
Perhaps, and several of the mints, and costmary,
Too, I think; they were fresh and brash and fragrant, but a man
     can forget
All names but one. I was not alone in the room.
Even in the morning they were fresh, they had not died.
We had meant to have tied
Some of them into garlands, but we had no time.
They were fragrant even without being touched, there was so 
     much
Pressure against them from the passion that beat against that
     room
Enough to wrench its rafters down.
I was late getting down
To the shore. Women there,
With sea-wind slashing their hair into their eyes, were drying 
Long net and long net and long net.

                   IV

Heavily on the faithful bulk of Kurvenal, 
My servant for a long time, leaning,
With footsteps less from weakness than for pleasure in the 
     green grass, lagging, I came here,
Out of the house, to lie, propped up on pillows, under this 
     fine tree—
Oak older than I, but still, not being ill, growing,
Granted to feel, I think, barring lightning, year after year,—and 
     barring the axe—
For a long time yet, the green sap flowing.