Yseult

Brush the mold from Yseult's hair and face:
And you will find that swarthy furious gold
Still smoldering under the blanket of black mold;
And you will find those eyelids frail as lace;
Eyes like blue stones washed in a windy place;
That mouth whose glowing motion once controlled
Cornwall and Lyonnesse; that throat as cold
As a long curve in water, white as a vase
Of moon-swept ivory: you will discover
That body whose keen pallor was a sword
Unsheathed only for one lord and lover,
Flashing only for one lover and lord:
Your eyes will blur to find with sharp surprise
Tears burning on her eyelids and her eyes!