It was a lonely forest, deep and vast, A secret and a soundless trysting-place, Where one might meet, nor be surprised to meet, From out his past, or from his life to come, A veilèd shape, a presence bitter-sweet, A thing that was, a thing was yet to be! It seemed a fatal place, a destined day. Down a long aisle of beechen trees I rode, And came upon a small and sunny vale, And there I met a face from out a dream, An ancient dream, a dark and lovely face.— Give me your fan of pearl and ivory! [_He takes the fan from_ THE MARQUISE. I’ll turn enchanter, use it for my rod, And make you see, Marquise, the very place! [_He points with the fan._ Here sprang the silver column of a beech; There, mossy knees of a most ancient oak; Yonder a wall of thickest foliage rose; And here a misty streamlet flowed With a voice more low than the dying fall Of a trouvère’s lute in Languedoc, And on its shore the slender flowers grew; Upon a foxglove bell hung _papillon_; And all around the grass was long and fine. Within this sylvan space, ah, ages since! The white-robed Druids in the cold moonlight Had reared an altar stone of wondrous height; The fane was there, the Druids were away. All fragrant was the air, and sunny still,— On the Eve of Saint John ‘tis ever so! Above, the sky was blue without a cloud; The sun stood sentinel o’er the haunted wood. And there she lay, the woman of a dream, Against the Druid Stone, amid the bloom; Her eyes were on the stream; she leaned her ear; From far away the trouvère played to her; In flakes of gold the sunlight blessed her hair; Her lips were red; she seemed a princess old; Mid purple bloom she lay and gazed afar, In the magic wood on a magic day, Listening to hear the mighty trouvère play. Was she a princess or a peasant maid? I do not know, pardie! She may have been That Vivien who wrought old Merlin wrong. I cannot tell if she were rich or poor; I only saw her face; I only know I loved the dream I met in Paimpont Wood As I did ride last year to Chatillon On Saint John’s Eve.— [_He lays the fan upon the table._ So I have loved, Marquise! THE MARQUISE What did your pretty dream? DE VARDES As other dreams; She fled! THE MARQUISE And you pursued? DE VARDES Yes, but in vain! Trouble no dream that is dreamed in Paimpont! The wood closed around her; she vanished quite. It must have been that evil Vivien, Since you, Marquise, have never trod the wood! THE MARQUISE Would I have fled? DE VARDES