Classic Poem

I SOLDE , in the story old,
When Ireland's coast the vessel nears,
And Death were fairer to behold,
To Tristan gives " the cup that clears. "
Straight to their fate the helmsman steers:
Unknowing, each the potion sips.
Comes echoing through the ghostly years
" Give me the philtre of thy lips! "

Ah, that like Tristan I were bold!
My soul into the future peers,
And passion flags, and heart grows cold,
And sicklied resolution veers.
I see the Sister of the Shears
Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips...
Still falls upon my inward ears,
" Give me the philtre of thy lips! "

Hero of lovers, largely soul'd!
Imagination thee enspheres
With song-enchanted wood and wold
And casements fronting magic meres.
Tristan, thy large example cheers
The faint of heart; thy story grips! —
My soul again that echo hears,
" Give me the philtre of thy lips! "

Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears!
He stakes all who Elysium clips.
What tho' the fruit be tares and tears! —
Give me the philtre of thy lips!