Isolt of the white hands, in Brittany,

Could see no longer northward anywhere

A picture more alive or less familiar

Than a blank ocean and the same white birds

Flying, and always flying, and still flying,

Yet never bringing any news of him

That she remembered, who had sailed away

The spring before -- saying he would come back,

Although not saying when. Not one of them,

For all their flying, she thought, had heard the name

Of Tristram, or of him beside her there

That was the King, her father. The last ship

Was out of sight, and there was nothing now

For her to see before the night came down

Except her father's face. She looked at him

And found him smiling in the way she feared, . . .

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