And now, as the strange cloud of incense broke,
The vision, if it were a vision, spoke,—­
If it were speech that filled the quivering air
With low harmonious music.  Let none dare
In the rude jargons of this world to fashion
That sweet, wild anthem of unearthly passion. 
Could I from the broad-billowing ocean borrow
Of Tristan’s love and of Isolde’s sorrow,
The flood of those world-darkening surges, wrought
With thoughts that lie beyond the reach of thought,
Might bring me succor where weak words must fail. 
But Gawayne saw and heard, and passion-pale
Shrank back, and made a darkness of his face;
(As though the unplumbed deeps of starless space
Could quench those lustrous eyes, or close his ears
To the eternal music of love’s spheres!)
But the voice changed, and Gawayne, listening there,
Heard now a heart’s low cry of wild despair. 
He turned again, and lo! the vision knelt
And drew a jeweled poniard from her belt,
To arm herself against her own dear life;
But as she bared her white breast to the knife
He started quickly forward, and he grasped
The hand that held the hilt; and then she clasped
Her soft arms round his neck, and as their lips
Met in the shadowing fold of love’s eclipse,
All earth, all heaven, all knightly hopes of grace,
Died in the darkness of one blind embrace.

Died?  Nay; for Gawayne, ere the moment passed,
Broke from the arms that strove to bind him fast,
And turned away once more; and, as he pressed
A trembling hand against his throbbing breast,
His aimless fingers touched a treasured part
Of the green holly-branch of Elfinhart,
Laid in his breast when he put off his arms. 
What perils now are left in fairy charms? 
For poets fable when they call love blind;
Love’s habitation is the purer mind,
Whence with his keen eyes he may penetrate
All mists and fogs that baser spells create. 
Love?  What is love?  Not the wild feverish thrill,
When heart to heart the thronging pulses fill,
And lips that close in parching kisses find
No speech but those;—­the best remains behind. 
The tranquil spirit—­the divine assurance
That this life’s seemings have a high endurance—­
Thoughts that allay this restless striving, calm
The passionate heart, and fill old wounds with balm;—­
These are the choirs invisible that move
In white processionals up the aisles of love.

Such love was Gawayne’s,—­love that sanctifies
The heart’s most secret altar; and his eyes
Were opened, and his pulses beat once more
Their old true rhythm.  And so the strife was o’er,
And all the perilous wiles of magic art
Were foiled by Gawayne—­and by Elfinhart.

But time flies, and ’t were tedious to delay
My song for all the trials of that day. 
Light summer breezes, skurrying o’er the deep,
Ripple and foam and flash,—­then sink to sleep;
But underneath, serene and changing never,
The mighty heart of ocean beats forever,
And his deep streams renew from pole to pole
The living world’s indomitable soul. 
Enough, then, of the spells that vexed the brain
Of Gawayne; love and knighthood made all
vain.