And Accolon, at Castle Chariot still, Had lost long weeks in love. Her husband ill, Morgane, perforce, must leave her lover here Among the hills of Gore. A lodge stood near A cascade in the forest, where their wont Was to sit listening the falling fount, That, through sweet talks of many idle hours On moss-banks, varied with the violet flowers, Had learned the lovers' language,--sighed above,-- And seemed, in every fall, to whisper, "love"; That echoed through the lodge, her hands had draped With curious hangings; where were worked and shaped Remembered hours of pleasure, body and soul; Imperishable passions, which made whole The past again in pictures; and could mate The heart with loves long dead; and re-create The very kisses of those perished knights With woven records of long-dead delights. Below the lodge within an urnéd shell The water pooled, and made a tinkling well, Then, slipping thence, through dripping shadows fell From rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon, With Morgane's hollow lute, as eve drew on Came all alone: not ev'n her brindled hound To bound before him o'er the gleaming ground; No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair, Or paging dwarf in purple with him there; Only her lute, about which her perfume Clung, odorous of memories, that made bloom Her absent features, making them arise, Like some rich flower, before his memory's eyes, That seemed to see her lips and to surmise The words they fashioned; then the smile that drank Her soul's deep fire from eyes wherein it sank And slowly waned away to deeper dreams, Fathomless with thought, down in their dove-gray streams. And so for her imagined eyes and lips, Heart-fashioned features, all the music slips Of all his soul, himseems, into his voice, To sing her praises. And, with nervous poise, His fleet, trained fingers waken in her lute Such mellow riot as must make envy-mute The nightingale that listens quivering. And well he hopes that, winging thence, 'twill sing A similar song;--whose passions burn and pain Its anguished soul, now silent,--not in vain Beneath her casement, in that garden old Dingled with heavy roses; in the gold Of Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon: And still he hopes the heartache of the tune Will clamor secret memories in her ear, Of life, less dear than death with her not near; Of love, who longs for her, to have her here: Till melt her eyes with tears; and sighs and sobs O'erwhelm her soul, and separation throbs Hard at her heart, that, longing, lifts to death A prayerful pleading, crying, "But a breath, One moment of real heaven, there! in his arms! Close, close! And, for that moment, then these charms, This body, hell, canst have forevermore!" And sweet to know, perhaps its song will pour