Some faded and forgotten queen
Of antique Britain or Bretagne,
Her form clung to by folds of green
And pale-red petals strewed thereon—

Some sweeting of Guinévera's house,
Or lip-red Iseult's, young and warm—
You rend the mould, and straight arouse
The honeyed suitors of the swarm:

New Tristrams, gold- and sable-clad,
Their momentary longings moan,
Drain coral cups in pledges glad—
And leave you trembling, and alone.