Warm in their mantles wrapped, the three stood there, Under the hollies, in the clear still air,-- Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. Long they stayed still, then, pacing at their ease, Moved up and down under the glossy trees; But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, From Iseult’s lips the unbroken story flowed, And still the children listened, their blue eyes Fixed on their mother’s face in wide surprise. Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side, Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide, Nor to the snow, which, though ’twas all away From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear, The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. And they would still have listened, till dark night Came keen and chill down on the heather bright; But when the red glow on the sea grew cold, And the gray turrets of the castle old Looked sternly through the frosty evening-air, Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair, And brought her tale to an end, and found the path, And led them home over the darkening heath. And is she happy? Does she see unmoved The days in which she might have lived and loved Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, One after one, to-morrow like to-day? Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will: Is it this thought which makes her mien so still, Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet Her children’s? She moves slow; her voice alone Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, But even that comes languidly; in truth, She seems one dying in a mask of youth. And now she will go home, and softly lay Her laughing children in their beds, and play A while with them before they sleep; and then She’ll light her silver lamp,--which fishermen Dragging their nets through the rough waves afar, Along this iron coast, know like a star,-- And take her broidery-frame, and there she’ll sit Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it; Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind Her children, or to listen to the wind. And when the clock peals midnight, she will move Her work away, and let her fingers rove Across the shaggy brows of Tristram’s hound, Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground; Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes Fixed, her slight hands clasped on her lap; then rise, And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told Her rosary-beads of ebony tipped with gold; Then to her soft sleep--and to-morrow’ll be To-day’s exact repeated effigy. Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. The children, and the gray-haired seneschal,