Prose remains of Arthur Hugh Clough, with a selection from his letters and a memoir

by Arthur Hugh Clough

Sleeping with her little ones, and, it may be, dreaming too, though less happily than they, lies Iseult of Brittany. And now—

What voices are those on the clear night air?

What lights in the courts? what steps on the stair?

PART II.

Tristram. Raise the light, my page, that I may see her.

—Thou art come at last, then, haughty Queen!

Long I’ve waited, long have fought my fever,

Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been.

Iseult. Blame me not, poor sufferer, that I tarried.

I was bound; I could not break the band.