Tristan and Isolde - A Tragedy #230280

Waking the tones that slumber to a lay That stirs the embrous heart to rapturous fire. The west wind, rising from the sunset pyre Where flame the dolours of the dying day, Sweeps threnodies that weep, yet fondly say The dawn will burst again in carol choir, That augurs day will come. So, Poesy, To thee I turn when mourns my evening wind; Thou art my solace, pledge and prophecy. I turn to thee distressed and unresigned, In sunset anguish for the joys that flee; Thou art the glamour that is left behind.