I.

'Wake, O king, the best star worn In the crown of night, forlorn Blinks a fine white point—'t is morn.' Soft! The queen's voice, fair is she, 'Wake!' He waketh, living, free, In the chamber of arras lieth he. Delicate dim shadows yield Silken curtains over head All abloom with work of neeld, Martagon and milleflower spread. On the wall his golden shield, Dinted deep in battle field, When the host o' the Khalif fled. Gold to gold. Long sunbeams flit Upward, tremble and break on it. 'Ay, 't is over, all things writ Of my sleep shall end awake, Now is joy, and all its bane The dark shadow of after pain.' Then the queen saith, 'Nay, but break Unto me for dear love's sake This thy matter. Thou hast been In great bitterness I ween All the night-time.' But 'My queen, Life, love, lady, rest content, Ill dreams fly, the night is spent, Good day draweth on. Lament 'Vaileth not,—yea peace,' quoth he; 'Sith this thing no better may be, Best were held 'twixt thee and me.' Then the fair queen, 'Even so As thou wilt, O king, but know Mickle nights have wrought thee woe, Yet the last was troubled sore Above all that went before.' Quoth the king, 'No more, no more.' Then he riseth, pale of blee, As one spent, and utterly Master'd of dark destiny.