And over thy bed is the quilt sewn with lilies,
And the loft is hung round with the green Southland hangings,
And all smelleth sweet as the low door is opened,
And thou turnest to see me there standing, and holding
Such dainties as may be, thy new hunger to stay—­
Then well may I hope that thou wilt not remember
Thine old woes for a moment in the freshness and pleasure,
And that I shall be part of thy rest for a little. 
And then—–­who shall say—­wilt thou tell me thy story,
And what thou hast loved, and for what thou hast striven? 
—­Thou shalt see me, and my love and my pity, as thou speakest,
And it may be thy pity shall mingle with mine. 
—­And meanwhile—­Ah, love, what hope may my heart hold? 
For I see that thou lovest, who ne’er hast beheld me. 
And how should thy love change, howe’er the world changeth? 
Yet meanwhile, had I dreamed of the bliss of this minute,
How might I have borne to live weary and waiting!

Woe’s me! do I fear thee? else should I not wake thee, For tending thou needest—­If my hand touched thy hand
          [Touching him.
I should fear thee the less.—­O sweet friend, forgive it, My hand and my tears, for faintly they touched thee!  He trembleth, and waketh not:  O me, my darling!  Hope whispers that thou hear’st me through sleep, and wouldst waken, But for dread that thou dreamest and I should be gone.  Doth it please thee in dreaming that I tremble and dread thee, That these tears are the tears of one praying vainly, Who shall pray with no word when thou hast awakened?  —­Yet how shall I deal with my life if he love not, As how should he love me, a stranger, unheard of? 
—­O bear witness, thou day that hast brought my love hither! 
Thou sun that burst out through the mist o’er the mountains,
In that moment mine eyes met the field of his sorrow—­
Bear witness, ye fields that have fed me and clothed me,
And air I have breathed, and earth that hast borne me—­
Though I find you but shadows, and wrought but for fading,
Though all ye and God fail me,—­my love shall not fail! 
Yea, even if this love, that seemeth such pleasure
As earth is unworthy of, turneth to pain;
If he wake without memory of me and my weeping,
With a name on his lips not mine—­that I know not: 
If thus my hand leave his hand for the last time,
And no word from his lips be kind for my comfort—­
If all speech fail between us, all sight fail me henceforth,
If all hope and God fail me—­my love shall not fail.

—­Friend, I may not forbear:  we have been here together: 
My hand on thy hand has been laid, and thou trembledst. 
Think now if this May sky should darken above us,
And the death of the world in this minute should part us—­
Think, my love, of the loss if my lips had not kissed thee. 
And forgive me my hunger of no hope begotten! [She kisses him.

KING PHARAMOND (awaking)