White roses, like a mist
Upon a terraced height;
And ’mid the roses, opal, moonbeam kissed,
A fountain falling white.
And as the full moon flows,
Orb’d fire, into a cloud,
There is a fragrant sound as if a rose
Sighed its sweet soul aloud.
There is a whisper pale,
As if a rose awoke,
And, having heard in sleep the nightingale,
Still dreaming of it spoke.
Now, as from some vast shell
A giant pearl rolls white,
From the dividing cloud, that winds compel,
The moon sweeps, big and bright.
Moon-mists and pale perfumes,
Wind-wafted through the dusk:
There is a sound as if unfolding blooms
Voiced their sweet thoughts in musk.
A spirit is abroad
Of music and of sleep;
The moon and mists have made for it a road
Adown the violet deep.
It breathes a tale to me,
A tale of ancient day;
And, like a dream, again I seem to see
Those towers old and gray.
That castle by the foam,
Where once our hearts made moan:
And through the night again you seem to come
Down statued stairs of stone.
Again I feel your hair,
Dark, fragrant, deep and cool:
You lift your face up, pale with its despair,
And wildly beautiful.
Again your form I strain,
Again, unto my heart;
Again your lips, again and yet again,
I press ... and then we part.
As centuries ago
We did in Camelot;
Where once we lived that life of bliss and woe,
That you remember not.
When you were Guinevere,
And I was Launcelot....
I have remembered many and many a year,
And you—you have forgot.