‘ Wake, O king, the best star worn
In the crown of night, forlorn
Blinks a fine white point —‘ t is morn.’
Soft! The queen's voice, fair is she,
‘ Wake!’ He waketh, living, free,
In the chamber of arras lieth he.
Delicate dim shadows yield
Silken curtains over head
All abloom with work of neeld,
Martagon and milleflower spread.
On the wall his golden shield,
Dinted deep in battle field,
When the host o’ the Khalif fled.
Gold to gold. Long sunbeams flit
Upward, tremble and break on it.
‘ Ay,‘ t is over, all things writ
Of my sleep shall end awake,
Now is joy, and all its bane
The dark shadow of after pain.’
Then the queen saith,‘ Nay, but break
Unto me for dear love's sake
This thy matter. Thou hast been
In great bitterness I ween
All the night-time.’ But‘ My queen,
Life, love, lady, rest content,
Ill dreams fly, the night is spent,
Good day draweth on. Lament
‘ Vaileth not,— yea peace,’ quoth he;
‘ Sith this thing no better may be,
Best were held‘ twixt thee and me.’
Then the fair queen,‘ Even so
As thou wilt, O king, but know
Mickle nights have wrought thee woe,
Yet the last was troubled sore
Above all that went before.’
Quoth the king,‘ No more, no more.’
Then he riseth, pale of blee,
As one spent, and utterly
Master'd of dark destiny.