Isolde, in the story old,
When Ireland's coast the vessel nears,
And Death were fairer to behold,
To Tristan gives “the cup that clears.”
Straight to their fate the helmsman steers:
Unknowing, each the potion sips....
Comes echoing through the ghostly years
“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”
Ah, that like Tristan I were bold!
My soul into the future peers,
And passion flags, and heart grows cold,
And sicklied resolution veers.
I see the Sister of the Shears
Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips....
Still falls upon my inward ears,
“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”
Hero of lovers, largely soul'd!
Imagination thee enspheres
With song-enchanted wood and wold
And casements fronting magic meres.
Tristan, thy large example cheers
The faint of heart; thy story grips!—
My soul again that echo hears,
“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”
Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears!
He stakes all who Elysium clips.
What tho’ the fruit be tares and tears!—
Give me the philtre of thy lips!