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And unforeseen within him. Like Isolt,
He stood now in the window looking north
Over the misty sea. A seven days’ moon
Was in the sky, and there were a few stars
That had no fire. “I have no more a child,”
He thought, “and what she is I do not know.
It may be fancy and fantastic youth
That ails her now; it may be the sick touch
Of prophecy concealing disillusion.
If there were not inwoven so much power
And poise of sense with all her seeming folly,
I might assume a concord with her faith
As that of one elected soon to die.
But surely no infringement of the grave
In her conceits and her appearances
Encourages a fear that still is fear;
And what she is to know, I cannot say.
A changeling down from one of those white stars
Were more like her than like a child of mine.”
He stood now in the window looking north
Over the misty sea. A seven days’ moon
Was in the sky, and there were a few stars
That had no fire. “I have no more a child,”
He thought, “and what she is I do not know.
It may be fancy and fantastic youth
That ails her now; it may be the sick touch
Of prophecy concealing disillusion.
If there were not inwoven so much power
And poise of sense with all her seeming folly,
I might assume a concord with her faith
As that of one elected soon to die.
But surely no infringement of the grave
In her conceits and her appearances
Encourages a fear that still is fear;
And what she is to know, I cannot say.
A changeling down from one of those white stars
Were more like her than like a child of mine.”
Nothing in the cold glimmer of a moon
Over a still, cold ocean there before him
Would answer for him in the silent voice
Over a still, cold ocean there before him
Would answer for him in the silent voice
[ 18 ]
