Who art thou? who art thou, that my dream I might tell thee? 
How with words full of love she drew near me, and kissed me. 
O thou kissest me yet, and thou clingest about me! 
Ah, kiss me and wake me into death and deliverance!

AZALAIS (drawing away from him)

Speak no rough word, I pray thee, for a little, thou loveliest! 
But forgive me, for the years of my life have been lonely,
And thou art come hither with the eyes of one seeking.

KING PHARAMOND

Sweet dream of old days, and her very lips speaking
The words of my lips and the night season’s longing. 
How might I have lived had I known what I longed for!

AZALAIS

I knew thou wouldst love, I knew all thy desire—­
Am I she whom thou seekest? may I draw nigh again?

KING PHARAMOND

Ah, lengthen no more the years of my seeking,
For thou knowest my love as thy love lies before me.

AZALAIS (coming near to him again)

O Love, there was fear in thine eyes as thou wakenedst;
Thy first words were of dreaming and death—­but we die not.

KING PHARAMOND

In thine eyes was a terror as thy lips’ touches faded, Sore trembled thine arms as they fell away from me; And thy voice was grown piteous with words of beseeching, So that still for a little my search seemed unended.  —­Ah, enending, unchanging desire fulfils me!  I cry out for thy comfort as thou clingest about me.  O joy hard to bear, but for memory of sorrow, But for pity of past days whose bitter is sweet now! Let us speak, love, together some word of our story, That our lips as they part may remember the glory.

AZALAIS

O Love, kiss me into silence lest no word avail me; Stay my head with thy bosom lest breath and life fail me.

THE MUSIC

LOVE IS ENOUGH:  while ye deemed him a-sleeping,
  There were signs of his coming and sounds of his feet;
His touch it was that would bring you to weeping,
  When the summer was deepest and music most sweet: 
    In his footsteps ye followed the day to its dying,
  Ye went forth by his gown-skirts the morning to meet: 
    In his place on the beaten-down orchard-grass lying,
    Of the sweet ways ye pondered yet left for life’s trying.

Ah, what was all dreaming of pleasure anear you,
  To the time when his eyes on your wistful eyes turned,
And ye saw his lips move, and his head bend to hear you,
  As new-born and glad to his kindness ye yearned? 
    Ah, what was all dreaming of anguish and sorrow,
  To the time when the world in his torment was burned,
    And no god your heart from its prison might borrow,
    And no rest was left, no to-day, no to-morrow?