The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, Had wandered forth. Her children were at play In a green circular hollow in the heath Which borders the seashore; a country path Creeps over it from the tilled fields behind. The hollow’s grassy banks are soft-inclined; And to one standing on them, far and near The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear Over the waste. This cirque of open ground Is light and green; the heather, which all round Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass Is strewn with rocks and many a shivered mass Of veined white-gleaming quartz, and here and there Dotted with holly-trees and juniper. In the smooth centre of the opening stood Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, Warm with the winter-sun, of burnished green With scarlet berries gemmed, the fell-fare’s food. Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, Watching her children play: their little hands Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams Of stagshorn for their hats; anon, with screams Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, Racing full speed, and startling in their rush The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush Out of their glossy coverts; but when now Their cheeks were flushed, and over each hot brow, Under the feathered hats of the sweet pair, In blinding masses showered the golden hair, Then Iseult called them to her, and the three Clustered under the holly-screen, and she Told them an old-world Breton history.