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 | Poems by Matthew Arnold |  |
Tristram.
Is she not come? The messenger was sure.
Prop me upon the pillows once again—
Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.
—Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!
What lights will those out to the northward be?
The Page.
The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea.
Tristram.
Soft—who is that, stands by the dying fire?
The Page.
Iseult.
Tristram.
Ah! not the Iseult I desire.
Is she not come? The messenger was sure.
Prop me upon the pillows once again—
Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.
—Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!
What lights will those out to the northward be?
The Page.
The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea.
Tristram.
Soft—who is that, stands by the dying fire?
The Page.
Iseult.
197
Ah! not the Iseult I desire.
| Poems by Matthew Arnold | |