With feverish face from morn till noon,
And noon to middle-night she stoops
From her high lattice; late and soon
In search for him among the troops
That come and go or loiter by.
For there had come a dame, in garb
Of pearls and samite, green of dye,
A stately woman on a barb,
From Camelot, who, looking round,
Had sneered, "'Mid herdsmen and such craft
This Tristram lives like any hound."
Then as she shook her curls and laughed,
And flashed on Isolt looks of scorn,
Trailing her glimmering jewels past,
"I met a madman yestermorn
Within the forest. Wild, aghast
He stood, all naked in the rain,
'Twas Tristram, he of Lyonesse,
A good knight once, but now--" Again
She laughed, then sneered.--And one might guess
The thing she hinted in disdain.