"Again I hold thee to my heart, Morgane; Here where the restless forest hears the main Toss as in troubled sleep. Now hear me, sweet, While I that dream of yesternight repeat."
"First let us find some rock or mossed retreat Where we may sit at ease.--Why dost thou look So serious? Nay! learn lightness from this brook, And gladness from these flowers, my Accolon. See the wild vista there! where purpling run Long woodland shadows from the sinking sun; Deeper the wood seems there, secluded as The tame wild-deer that, in the moss and grass, Gaze with their human eyes. Where grow those lines Of pale-starred green; and where yon fountain shines, Urned deep in tremulous ferns, let's rest upon Yon oak-trunk by the tempest overthrown Years, years ago. See, how 'tis rotted brown! But here the red bark's firm and overgrown Of trailing ivy darkly berried. Share My throne with me. Come, cast away thy care! Sit here and breathe with me this wildwood air, Musk with the wood's decay that fills each way; As if some shrub, while dreaming of the May, In longing languor weakly tried to wake Its perished blossoms and could only make Ghosts of such dead aromas as it knew, And shape a spectre of invisible dew To haunt these sounding miles of solitude."
"Still, thou art troubled, Morgane! and the mood, Deep in thy fathomless eyes, glows.--Canst not keep Mine eyes from seeing!--Dark thy thought and deep As that of some wild woman,--found asleep By some lost knight upon a precipice,-- Whom he hath wakened with a sudden kiss: As that of some frail elfin lady,--light As are the foggy moonbeams,--filmy white, Who waves diaphanous beauty on a cliff, That, drowsing, purrs with moon-drenched pines; but if The lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and drag Him crashing down, while she, tall on the crag, Triumphant, mocks him with glad sorcery Till all the wildwood echoes shout with glee."
"Follow thy figure further, Accolon. Right fair it is. Too soon, alas! art done," Said she; and tossing back her heavy hair, Said smilingly, yet with a certain air Of hurt impatience, "Why dost not compare This dark expression of my eyes, ah me! To something darker? say, it is to thee As some bewildering mystery of a tarn, A mountain water, that the mornings scorn To anadem with fire and leave gray; To which a champion cometh when the day Hath tired of breding for the twilight's head Flame-petaled blooms, and, golden-chapleted, Sits waiting, rosy with deep love, for night, Who cometh sandaled with the moon; the light Of the auroras round her; her vast hair Tortuous with stars,--that burn, as in a lair The eyes of hunted wild things glare with rage,-- And on her bosom doth his love assuage."