His wound dressed, and her steed still violent
From fear, she mounted and behind him bent
And clasped him on the same steed; and they went
On through the gold wood tow'rds the golden west,
Till, on one low hill's forest-covered crest,
Gray from the gold, his castle's battlements pressed.
And then she felt she'd loved him till had come
Fame of the love of Isoud, whom, from home,
Tristram had brought across the Irish foam;
And Guenevere's for Launcelot of the Lake: