Iseult.
The light begins to filter through the land;
Behold, the trees with storm-bow'd tips drop down
A thousand drops into the moss below
That seem as many sparks, all cold and bright.
Each day is followed by another one,
And then another day, and after each
Comes night. Thus runs my life's long chain of beads,
All black and white, endless, and all the same.
[She turns and throws off her cloak.]
Give me my new white cloak, and comb my hair,
I pray, Brangaene.—O, it aches!
[Brangaene throws a cloak over her shoulders.
Iseult sits down at the dressing table while
Brangaene combs her hair, dividing it into
strands and throwing it, as she combs it,
over Iseult's shoulder.]
Brangaene.
The comb
Slides like a keel. Its narrow teeth can find
No bottom, neither shore in this blond sea.
I never saw thy hair so full, Iseult,
Nor yet so heavy! See the golden gold.
Iseult.
It aches—!
Brangaene.
And here it's damp as though last night
It secretly had dried full many tears.
Iseult.
I wonder if Lord Tristram spent last night
By his new bride—and if he calls her all
Those sweetest names he made for me.
Perhaps
He sat upon her couch and told her tales
Of me that made them laugh—! I wonder too
If she be fair. Lord Tristram's new-wed bride!—